Waylaid
by DjinniFires
Summary: Gold wants to be the man Bae used to loved - that Belle *will* love. But his past gets in the way. Can Gold rescue Emma and Snow from fairy tale land? Someone wants the dagger - to kill him or enslave him? *** Alt events after Ep2/07 *** Ch10/12: "Have You Ever Had a Hamburger?" * Belle calls * A swordsman appears: Prepare to Die! * Gold reveals the dark secret of Avonlea
1. Nothing in This Shop Belongs to You

_**If you don't know TV's Once Upon a Time... **_In Storybrooke, Maine, storybook characters live in exile. Once victims of a powerful curse that suppressed memories of their origins, they're now free from the fog of forgetfulness. Instead, they vacillate between two identities—one from the land of ogres and evil queens; the other from the land of hamburgers and cell phones. They differ on which holds the brighter promise of happily ever after.

In Neverland,** Smee** was Captain Hook's right hand man. In Storybrooke, he delivers bouquets for Moe the florist.

In fairy tale land, **Mr. Gold** (lawyer-pawnbroker-antique restorer) was the wizard **Rumplestiltskin** (spinner of gold, maker of deals, the Dark One). He was also Belle's beloved Beast—but when beastliness is more than skin deep, even true love's kiss can't fix a rocky relationship. After the curse broke, Mr. Gold brought magic to Storybrooke. The ability to toss a fireball comes in handy with annoying customers.

**Ruby** (waitress at Granny's Diner) was **Red **(as in** Riding Hood**) who shapeshifted into a **wolf **for a few nights every month. Now that Storybrooke has magic, she fears the full moon will affect her again.

**Dr. Hopper** (psychologist) was **Jiminy Cricket**. All things considered, he's happier in Storybrooke. At least he's not a bug.

As part of the curse, everyone's fairy tale *stuff* ended up in Gold's shop. Now that they remember what they're missing, they want it back.

* * *

_**For those who love Once Upon a Time ... **_Waylaid starts just before "Child of the Moon" (2x07) and veers off after.

* * *

_**Chapter 1**_

**Nothing in This Shop Belongs to You**

**Leroy/Grumpy**: Just 'cause you possess something don't mean it's yours (_The Crocodile_).

Smee stared at the sign proclaiming _Regina Mills Park_ that some scalawag had spray painted over with _Evil Queen Park_. He chomped down on his wad of gum, worked it around a few more times in his mouth, then spat it out the window of the parked floral van, aiming for the _Q_.

Nearly twenty minutes he'd been waiting, and the damn kids wouldn't get off the playground castle. The _X _marked on the base of the orange tower thingy teased Smee with its promise of a hard-to-find-object buried nearby. He wanted to start digging—but not in front of a bunch of nosy kids. So here he sat as his half hour lunch ticked away. Well screw Moe and the dozen radiant-assortment-of-fall-color bouquets chilling in the back of the van. He wasn't making another delivery until he'd picked up what he'd been sent to find. The nobleman-turned-florist might provide a safer work environment than Captain Hook, but his old boss sure paid better.

_At least I hope so_, Smee thought. Truth be told, he didn't really know who'd hired him. But didn't marking the spot with an X scream classic Hook? Just because he'd told Mr. Gold he'd never seen Hook in Storybrooke, didn't mean the captain hadn't been lurking, waiting to rebuild his crew. One could dream.

Smee glanced over to the picnic tables where nuns—or fairies, or whatever they fancied themselves these days—were arranging stacks of paper plates and unwrapping platters of picnic food. _Finally_. The kids in the parochial school uniforms would be clearing out. That left the pipsqueak in the Donald Duck T-shirt trying to build his own castle out of playground mud.

Smee treated himself to a third stick of gum.

Then annoyance turned to exasperation. Just when the nuns were calling their kids away, what does the pipsqueak do? He spots the X.

Smee gripped his door handle—ready to sprint out if the kid's inspection of the strange graffiti sparked his interest. When the kid hunkered down and stuck his garden spade into the muddy ground beside the base of the tower marked X, Smee shot from the van like a cannon ball.

"Hey, bucko. Scram."

The kid glanced up through shaggy black bangs but never stopped digging.

"Hey! I said—" The dull thud of the metal spade hitting a hollow metal box brought Smee to a dead halt. Then the kid struck the box again, scraping dirt away from its side. Smee jumped and grabbed him by the wrist.

The kid screamed.

Just as quickly, Smee sprang back, waving his hands for _Stop!_ He barely had time to mutter "I'll pay you" when the youngest of the nuns came trotting over from the picnic tables.

"How much?" the kid whispered.

Smee peered at the partially exposed lid of the rusty biscuit tin. Would Captain Hook pick a box sporting a wreath of Christmas bells to hide a treasure? _If this isn't what I came for, at least buying it will get rid of the pipsqueak_. "Everything I've got on me," he whispered back.

The tall gangly nun came to an awkward stop, her navy blue cape swinging. Her big doe eyes looked embarrassed and determined at the same time. "I think you need to leave. Mother Superior has a cell phone, and she's calling Sheriff Nolan right now."

The kid looked up with an engagingly toothy grin. "It's all right, Miss. This is my... uncle. We were just goofing around." The kid resumed his task of prying the tin box out of the mud.

"Oh! Your uncle." The nun looked immensely relieved.

Smee winked at the kid. To the nun he said, "Maybe you better go tell Mother Superior to hold that call."

The nun's mouth formed an _Oh!_ She about-faced and raced back to her group.

When Smee looked down at the kid again, he was clutching the grimy box to his chest. "Empty your pockets, _uncle,_" he said.

Despite turning out every one, all Smee could come up with was $14.27 in change plus the rest of the pack of spearmint gum. When he held out his meager liquid assets, the kid hugged the biscuit tin tighter.

"Whatever's in this box is pretty valuable, huh? Maybe I should find someone who'll pay me more."

Smee smiled. Looking at this kid was like seeing himself, only younger. He'd feel really bad punching him after the nuns left. But he remembered the words of wisdom he'd once heard Mayor Mills give Moe: _Strong men take what they need._

"Okay, bucko," Smee said. "Have a peek inside and tell me what it's worth." He wanted to know, too. It would be a pity to hit a boy-after-his-own-heart over nothing.

The pipsqueak grinned. Then he set the box on his lap, brushed the dirt from the lid, and wiggled open the hook-and-eye fastener. He worked his stubby nails under the lip and tilted it up by its crusted hinges.

Looking inside, the kids' eyes bugged out like musket balls. "D-d-dark one?!" he shrieked and dropped the box. Immediately, the lid clicked shut. For a moment he crouched there, trembling. Then he staggered to his feet and stumbled over the brambles that separated the playground from the road. When he touched pavement, he sped off towards town.

Smee burst out laughing. "Not so sharp after all. Go play with your dolls, you skinny git." He stooped to pick up the tin box. Maybe this _wasn't_ a Captain Hook sort of job.

_What the hell's in this thing, anyway?_

* * *

The glass wolf sparkled and danced as Mr. Gold dangled it from its gray thread. Sidelong, he glanced at the wolf's owner. Evidently, Storybrooke's resident hottie had been anxious to keep her appointment with him this morning. She'd barely run a comb through her long chestnut hair. Elbows on the counter, Ruby stared fixated at her keepsake. Sure of his audience, Mr. Gold shot the cuffs on his indigo jacquard shirt and pointed at the glass trinket, suffusing the body with an unearthly green glow.

Ruby's eyes widened. "Do you think this will work?"

"If your cloak is in Storybrooke, it'll be in my shop—unless someone stole it. The day after the curse broke, my place was a free for all. More than one prize ended up in the wrong hands when my back was turned."

"I _need_ that cloak."

Mr. Gold noted desperation in the way Ruby twisted the fringe of her black-and-silver scarf around her scarlet-nailed finger. _Excellent. _That would make her easier to influence.

"Tomorrow night's the first full moon since things _changed_," she continued. "If I didn't bring enough cash, you have to let me work out payments."

"Oh, no charge. It's _your_ cloak. You never bartered it away. All I ask is—"

Ruby's sharp glance stopped him mid-sentence. "I won't report on Belle to you."

_Damn it. _Mr. Gold favored the lovely young woman with what he hoped was a pleasant smile. "Be my spy? Of course I wouldn't ask that." _At least not directly._ "What I want is for you to be careful about who else learns your secret. When someone is different, forced to struggle with a beast nature—someone like you or me—people can be judgmental… not like Belle."

"She's been a good friend," Ruby murmured.

Mr. Gold nodded. _I've found the right tack. _"You and I never met when I was under the Dark One curse. Back then, I was the stuff of nightmares: lizard skin, black talons, snake eyes. The sight of me scared wee children into obeying their parents and grown men into wetting their pants." Noting Ruby's faint smile, he added, "Belle could see past that."

Ruby's expression took on a wolf-like wariness.

_I overstepped. Time to divert_. "Here. Your wolf is ready to guide you. Let it swing freely. Possession will call to possession. When you near something that belongs to you, you'll feel a tug. When you're very close, the wolf will glow red."

Taking her luminous charm, Ruby's wariness melted into delight. "Where should I look?"

"Anywhere the wolf leads." Clutching his cane for support, Mr. Gold stepped back from his counter to gesture around the treasure-filled display cases, shelves, and racks gracing his pawnshop. "If your search brings no joy, try my office and storeroom."

"You trust me not to take something that doesn't belong to me?"

"Why wouldn't I, dear?" _One must give trust to gain trust._ Ignoring the tension he felt anytime he left someone unchaperoned in his domain, Mr. Gold pivoted on his cane and hobbled to his office. Sweeping back the curtains, he paused on the threshold. Today's stack of pestering, questionable claims for pre-curse property sat accusingly on his desk. His current restoration project—touching up the gold leaf on a music box—beckoned him from his worktable. His shoulders relaxed. _Just a quick break before I slog through more inventory_, he promised himself.

Mr. Gold limped to his table, lowered himself onto his chair, and arranged his tools. He paused to listen to Ruby bumping around his showroom. He was fairly sure the magical cloak that could prevent her transformation from human to wolf was not in his keeping. Vaguely, he recalled a swathe of red cloth in a display case that had nestled three violins throughout the long years of the curse. But when the trio of fiddlers had come for their instruments on Let's-Raid-Mr.-Gold's-Day, the cloth under them had turned out to be a witch's tartan cape.

"No matter," Mr. Gold whispered to himself. _Ruby will still owe me a favor. _His thoughts strayed to images of Belle taking stock of the old library, holding fort at the lending desk, sharing nursery tales with the children at story time. If he could wrangle a few details out of Ruby—what books Belle was reading, her reaction to the Internet, her opinions of the new people she was meeting, unsheltered for the first time in her life—then his fantasies of her would be enriched. That would be more than enough payment for a simple seeking spell.

* * *

"Mr. Gold."

He continued exhaling a steady soft stream of air, guiding the tail end of the feather-light gold leaf until the sheet settled smooth and unwrinkled on the side of the music box. He looked up from his magnifying apparatus to see Ruby standing in the doorway holding a child-sized crossbow and three small arrows.

"The wolf charm works," she said. "Granny made me these when I was four."

"But no cloak." Mr. Gold swept his hand across his office. "Hopefully, your luck will improve in here."

As Ruby entered, Mr. Gold looked to his tool holder for his agate burnisher.

Abruptly, she declared, "It's not a _curse_."

Startled, Mr. Gold looked up to see Ruby dangling her wolf at arm's length, stalking it around the shelf-lined walls of his office.

"My condition," she continued. "At least, I don't think it's a curse. It runs in the family. Wouldn't that make it… genetic?"

"With magic that's meaningless. The originator of the curse could have visited it on all future generations in perpetuity." As he spoke, Mr. Gold observed a sign of opposition in Ruby's eyes. _Ahh_, he said to himself and readjusted his answer. "But whether a condition is a curse or a natural trait, it's the individual that determines how it manifests." He leaned forward and lowered his voice. As intended, she stopped in her tracks to listen. "What you're thinking is that some aspects of the wolf are so much a part of you that nothing and no one could make you give them up."

A deep sigh went through Ruby. She lowered the glowing glass trinket.

_I'm in_. _Tread cautiously_. "You like the ability to distinguish scents and know what they mean, to bound and leap like a wolf, to feel no fear." Mr. Gold noted Ruby's reaction to each word before adding, "Only someone who's navigated the benefits and the risks of such power would understand it."

Ruby cocked her head, betraying a hint of suspicion. "Someone like you?"

Mr. Gold gave a self-deprecating shrug. "Before I took on the Dark One curse, I was one of the multitudes of powerless peasants under the boot of any nobleman's henchman who staked a claim to our hard-earned property, our skilled labor, our self-respect, even our children. Unlike you, I had a choice about taking on a beast nature. When I think of the consequences of my decision, I regret nearly everything… except this: having the power to face the bullies on their own terms."

Ruby nodded. "I hear you. Before I knew what I could do, the village jerks used to make me kiss them or they'd trample my berry baskets. I put up with it. But after, during the rebellion, I was Charming's best warrior. Really bad-ass. All I had to do was touch the clasp on my red cape, and King George's twits would run screaming. I _loved_ that." She bit her lip. "But the risks…."

"Ahh, the risks. Keep looking for your cape, dear, and I'll tell you a story."

Ruby resumed hunting. Mr. Gold tilted back in his chair. "In the old world, to stay grounded with everyday life, I'd masquerade as a hooded old man and walk among the common folk. I'd amuse myself with trifles—tripping up knights as they strutted around, spiriting coins out of tax collectors' coffers back to peasants' hidey holes. One day I was walking through a market when a riding party of young aristocrats on pretty white steeds pranced through the gate. An old woman passed too close for one knight's liking, and he reared up his stallion to knock over her potato cart. Then he raised his whip and lashed it across her back until she cowered, pleading for mercy. I didn't feel _amused._ Darkness filled me with one thought—to lock him and all his snooty friends in a strangling spell and make them fear for their lives."

Ruby stopped short. Once again, her expression was wary—even afraid.

_Good_. "Then something changed me. One young noblewoman jumped off her horse, slogged through the mud, slapped the knight's whip from his hand, crouched in the muck beside the old woman, picked up every last potato, and wiped it off on her own velvet riding breeches—all the while berating the knight." Mr. Gold paused and pressed his eye to his magnifier. "That's the first time I saw Belle."

Mr. Gold sensed rather than heard Ruby come closer. He felt his cheeks grow warm. _I've overstepped again. What's wrong with me?_ But when he looked up to see Ruby standing on the other side of his table, her smile was pure sympathy. "So Belle is your magical red cape? You should go to the library and tell her that story yourself."

_Indirect? I couldn't have been more obvious if I'd lumbered in waving a white flag. _Possible approaches to saving the situation raced through his head until he decided on his least favorite: honesty. "I can't. I can't face her. I can't fix what's wrong between us. I can't think of a way to make things work. I just want to know… how she's doing."

* * *

Mr. Gold smiled at Ruby, taking in her details about Belle's life on her own_._ When Belle's introduction to hot dogs, French fries, malts, and chocolate sundaes had led her to lament about her skirt feeling tight, Ruby had introduced her to Zumba classes, jogging, and racquetball.

"She has yet to try a burger, though. She won't say why."

As Mr. Gold had imagined, Belle was devouring the books in the library. Travel was her favorite—from the great cities of their current world to the astounding contrasts of its deserts, seas, forests, and jungles. All the places Mr. Gold was planning to visit with her on his quest to find his son—before he'd learned that crossing the border would erase his memory of Baelfire and before her doubts about their relationship had become certainties.

"She's reading a lot of psychology books, too."

And Belle—hidden away in an asylum throughout the 28 plus 1 years of the curse—was meeting her fellow residents of Storybrooke for the first time.

"Everyone loves her."

Mr. Gold remembered the chagrin on Gaston's face when Belle had scolded him. "She can even make bullies—"

The jangling of his front door bell interrupted him. _What now? _Gripping his cane, Mr. Gold hoisted himself to his feet. "Let me see to that. You keep searching."

As he made his way across his office, he let new visions of Belle form in his mind. They made his steps feel almost light. Then he passed into his shop and saw him—Mr. Smee—squatting before a showcase he'd jimmied open, poking around the knives, cutlasses, and swords inside.

Without a second thought, Mr. Gold raised his left hand and sent a lightning bolt of what-the-hell-do-you-think-you're-doing across the room to slam the cabinet door against him.

Mr. Smee squealed like a pig, fell on his butt, and clasped his bruised wrist. No longer blocked, the door shut and the lock clicked.

"I'm closed for inventory. Until further notice, people enter my shop by appointment. You don't have an appointment."

Mr. Smee scrambled to his feet. "Moe sent me to fetch something."

"Tell him to bring his pledge slip and final payment and he can have whatever it is back."

"Not something he pawned—" Mr. Smee adjusted his red cap.

_Giving himself time to lie_, thought Mr. Gold.

"—something from back home. A ceremonial iron dagger."

Mr. Gold sighed. _How many times do I have to repeat this? _"For something he owned in the Enchanted Forest, he needs to submit a detailed description. I have three days to turn it over or explain why I can't. If the claimant isn't satisfied, then he can petition Acting Sheriff Charming to arbitrate and, if needs be, conduct the search himself. That's the deal."

"I know. I was at the Town Hall, too. But you got to admit—between Moe and you the situation is a bit more delicate."

Mr. Gold frowned. _Not so delicate that you avoided ringing my bell. Did you want me to catch you?_

"Moe doesn't fancy bumping into his daughter Belle without an invitation. From what I just heard, though, he doesn't have to worry anymore about bumping into her with you."

Mr. Gold clenched the head of his cane in his right hand and flexed the fingers of his left. _Did you want me angry, too?_

Then his bell jingled again, and he glanced over to see Dr. Hopper gingerly opening the door.

"I know I don't have an appointment, but—"

"Please come in. You're always welcome."

Smee strutted across the floor, stopping squarely in front of the marionette couple of the peasant farmer and his peasant wife. Mr. Gold felt a twinge of remorse as he always did when he thought of the abject fear carved into their wooden faces—the terror they'd felt the instant before the potion he'd intended for a different couple did its worst. That was the reason he'd kept them on display since acquiring them. Reminding himself just how easily magic could be screwed up was just another way to keep himself grounded.

Mr. Gold heard a gasp and looked at Dr. Hopper. His horror mirrored the marionettes'. _Did he just now recognize them?_

Smee sniggered. "These are a laugh riot. How much?"

"Not for sale, dearie," Mr. Gold snapped.

Hearing a noise behind him, Mr. Gold twisted around to see Ruby holding up an old world lock and key.

"These are mine, too." She smiled weakly.

"Ahh. Tomorrow night do what you must. If you leave me your scarf, dear, I should be able to come up with some useful spell by next month."

Ruby opened her mouth to speak, glanced over at the new arrivals, and nodded.

"If I'm successful, in exchange, I want… some nice takeout. Fish and chips and iced tea."

Laying her recovered treasures on the counter, Ruby unwrapped her fringed checkered scarf from around her neck and handed it to Mr. Gold. He watched her tuck her wolf into her breast pocket and scoop up the rest of her belongings. When she sauntered towards the door, he hobbled after her, noting the relative positions of innocent bystander Hopper and potential threat Smee. _I took him before. I can do it again._

Stopping in the doorway, Ruby cocked her head to one side and gazed down at him. "When Belle asks how _you're_ doing, what should I say?"

Mr. Gold felt a spark of electricity in his chest. _When Belle asks…_ He coughed, elaborately casual. "Oh, tell her I'm getting by. People have stopped harassing me on the street." _For the most part_. "The deal I set for orderly property restoration has stopped the break-ins." _Except for today's._ "This week I haven't received one anonymous threatening phone call." _Yet._

Ruby sucked her breath through her perfect white teeth. "Yeah. Belle told me about all that. She'll be glad things are better." With a lopsided smile, Ruby closed the door behind her.

_She'll be glad_, Mr. Gold repeated to himself as he turned back to his other customers. _Nothing can anger me now._

He even nodded graciously at Smee. "Unless there's something else, I'm sure Dr. Hopper would prefer privacy to ask whatever it is—"

"Can you turn me young again?" Smee blurted out. "Like you said you would. I managed to stay this age for quite awhile, but what I really want is to be young." Glancing at Hopper, he snarled, "This doesn't concern you." He strode up to Mr. Gold and seized his arm. Sotto voce, he continued. "You and me, we're the same. Independent contractors. You don't like surrounding yourself with minions. I don't like being under the thumb of a boss. I've got something you'd want. Let's do business, man to man."

Mr. Gold jerked away from Smee's grasp. "Can I make you young again? We'll never know, will we, dearie? I made that deal with you in exchange for a magic bean. You didn't deliver."

Smee waved his hands in the air. "Couldn't help it. My head was turned by a pretty woman. How was I to know she was Hook's pretty woman?"

_Hook's woman? _Mr. Gold felt cold anger in the pit of his stomach. _Before that marauding cur came along, Milah was my wife. _"Get out." He turned on his heel and limped across the floor, cracking his cane down sharply with each step. Out the corner of his eye, he saw Dr. Hopper cowering between a suit of armor and a grandfather clock.

"She was almost worth it," Smee added.

Furious, Mr. Gold swung around, barely keeping his balance. "Break a deal with me, dearie, you get no second chance."

"You'll want what I have. Trust me. It's information."

"Anything of value you know, you've already told me." Mr. Gold squeezed his left fist in a mock stranglehold. "Remember?"

Smee backed towards the door. "Your funeral."

* * *

"What a vile man," Mr. Gold muttered to himself. Looking up, he saw Dr. Hopper still frozen on the other side of his shop. He straightened his maroon silk tie and put on his most ingratiating smile. "Takes one to know one, right?"

A shiver coursed through Dr. Hopper, making his ginger curls tremble. He popped out of his corner, waving his hands in denial. "Oh, no. I wasn't thinking that. Nothing of the sort."

Mr. Gold pointed at the marionettes. "Not even when you saw those?"

Dr. Hopper passed his umbrella from hand to hand. Then he sidled towards the dolls as if anxious for a closer look but afraid of taking it. "Seeing those doesn't make me think of you. It makes me think of me. I've noticed them in your shop many times, of course. I… I didn't know why they bothered me so. This is the first time I've seen them and remembered."

Mr. Gold rested on his cane. "As agreed at the town meeting, I'm prepared to surrender all items to their rightful owners. But if I acquired an item in a deal—either here or in the Enchanted Forest—then that item is mine."

Dr. Hopper stared down at his scuffed brown loafers, the picture of shame and misery.

"Unlike Smee, however," Mr. Gold continued, "you've never cheated me. You're welcome to strike a new bargain. To tell you the truth, I'd made the deal in the first place with the expectation of renegotiating at a future time."

Slowly, Dr. Hopper raised his head to look at Mr. Gold. "Renegotiating? You mean they… they didn't have to stay wooden?"

"The potion I gave you was designed to render its recipients inanimate, not dead. I'd thought that after one night of guilt you'd come running to me, begging to have your mum and dad back. Imagine my surprise when I followed your trace to that cottage and found—not your troublesome parents—but these two… strangers."

Clamping his umbrella to his chest, Dr. Hopper mumbled, "My dad... he—he was pulling the fairy potion con on—on a young peasant couple. He—he switched the bottles..."

Mr. Gold chuckled. "Ah. Your father _was_ a sly one, wasn't he?" He swept his hand toward the wooden dolls. "If I'd known their names, I could have reanimated them to human form. Imagine my greater surprise when I lost your trace on a fence rail and couldn't ask you."

Dr. Hopper banged his umbrella against his forehead. "Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. You _told_ me you'd collect them, but I was too ashamed to seek you out. I was too ashamed to look at them. Damn me. All you needed was their names?"

"And a price. You were an excellent sneak thief. Your parents taught you well. I'd have asked you for a favor."

Dr. Hopper dashed up to Mr. Gold and leaned forward to earnestly search his face. "They're Geppetto's parents, Pietro and Sophia Polendina. If you make them human again, I'll steal anything you want."

"I said _could have_—back when I had my full powers."

"But you re-attached Dr. Whale's arm."

_And my price was merely hearing him admit he needed magic. _Gold leaned heavily on his cane. "I restored one piece of living flesh to its rightful place. That's the first trick I ever learned, useful on the battlefield or for repairing woodcutters' mishaps. The magic I've found in this world is but a shadow of the magic I had in that world. Inanimate isn't dead but it isn't living either. Before I try transforming lifeless back to life, I need time to experiment on—" he caught himself before saying _insects_ "—something _less significant_ than Geppetto's parents."

"Time!" Dr. Hopper grimaced and turned to the marionettes. "Damn me. If only renegotiation had occurred to me the night I did this to you! If you turn back now, would you be happy? Your son is old enough to be your grandfather!"

Mr. Gold reached out, hesitated, then patted Dr. Hopper on the leather padded elbow of his tweed jacket. "I have their names. That's a start. At least in Storybrooke they'd find they're no longer peasants. And that royals are no longer royals. If I were them, I'd find that advantage enough to make up for many lost years."

Mr. Gold located an empty satin-lined box in which Dr. Hopper could protect the marionettes. No point in displaying them now—particularly when their no longer amnesic son Geppetto could be the next Storybrooke denizen to visit the pawnshop.

Mr. Gold watched Dr. Hopper cradling the box out of his showroom into his office. Then he limped to the cabinet Smee had been rifling. _What was he looking for? _His bell rang again.


	2. What Do You Want?

_**For those who don't know the show Once Upon a Time... **_

**Thomas **(teenage dad working in the Storybrooke Cannery) is** Cinderella's Prince.**

Acting Sheriff** David Nolan (Prince Charming) **is married to **Mary-Margaret (Snow White). **Their daughter **Emma**, separated from them as a baby, grew up outside Storybrooke as a normal earth girl (tough with intimacy issues) while they remained the same age in time-warped Storybrooke. She spent her 29th year in Storybrooke. At the end of it, her love for her son** Henry** (adopted as a baby by **Regina the Evil Queen**) broke the curse.

When **Mr. Gold **learned** Regina **had **Belle **locked up in a psych ward during the long years of the curse, he was... displeased. After promising noble-hearted Belle not to _kill_ Regina, he conjured a wraith to torture her soul. Snow and Emma, selfless heroines, chased the wraith through a portal to protect Regina—then got sucked into fairy tale land with it.

In fairy tale land,** Moe **the florist was** Sir Maurice. **In exchange for Rumplestiltskin saving his town from ogres, he'd allowed his daughter Belle to become the Dark One's housekeeper. Moe is much happier being responsible for house plants in Storybrooke.

Soldier** Mulan **and** Princess Aurora (Sleeping Beauty) **are among the handful of characters left behind in fairy tale land.

When baby Emma was sent to earth, so was** Pinocchio**. He grew up to be novelist** August Wayne Booth **(liars make the best writers). During the 29th year of the curse, he began reverting to wood. He came to Storybrooke where he tricked Mr. Gold (Rumplestiltskin) into thinking he was his long lost son Baelfire so he could get his hands on the magic dagger that granted Rumplestiltskin his powers. When Mr. Gold unmasked the lie, he was... displeased. Being a crazy badass, he pinned the younger man against a tree with the dagger. When he heard Pinocchio's motive, he relented but—since Storybrooke under the curse lacked magic—couldn't help. When the curse broke, Pinocchio disappeared.

* * *

_**Chapter 2**_

**What Do You Want?**

**Dr. Whale/Frankenstein**: I need magic (_The Doctor_).

Not bothering to turn around to see who had rung his bell, Mr. Gold called out, "Appointments only." Grasping his cane, he tentatively lowered himself—handhold by handhold—to crouch beside the jumble of weapons in the display cabinet.

"I want my guitar back."

_If it's a demand, it must be a royal._ Awkwardly, Mr. Gold craned his head back to glower at Prince Thomas. "You pawned it. That transaction falls under this world's rules. Until you repay what you owe, your collateral stays." Gritting his teeth, he began the slow process of pulling himself back up his cane. When Thomas took a step forward, hand out, Mr. Gold shot him a murderous _Don't you dare _look_._

Thomas dropped his hand to his side. "I need my guitar today. I'm a man of honor. If you understood—"

Incensed, Mr. Gold planted his cane firmly in front of him. "Understood honor? Then I'd—what? Let you challenge me to a duel?"

"Whoa. Wait a minute. I never said—"

"Well, I've never been a man of _honor, _dearie. My code is _equity_. In exchange for your guitar, I loaned you the money for an engagement ring—much more than your instrument is worth. But if fighting for _honor_ is the only code you understand, I'm more than ready to oblige." Shifting his cane to his right hand, he lifted his left.

Mr. Gold watched the prince's boyish smile fade into apprehension as he saw the ball of fire forming on his adversary's outstretched palm. Satisfied, Mr. Gold tipped his head toward the still open door. Before he could say _Leave_, another uninvited visitor stepped through it.

_Prince Charming. That's all I need._ With a _pfft_, he stubbed out the magical flame. "Sheriff—_Acting_ Sheriff—kindly escort this young man to the street."

"What's this about a fight?"

Mr. Gold watched Charming stroll into his shop and stop, shoulder to shoulder, beside his good friend Thomas—another tall, young, buff, fresh-faced Lord of Creation. Mr. Gold scowled. Behind him, he heard Dr. Hopper shamble back into the showroom. Predictably, the counselor interjected, "I'm sure together we can settle things peacefully."

Thomas held up a placating hand. "I only meant, if you understood how important this is to me—to play my guitar at Ella's birthday party—you'd know you can trust me to bring it back in the morning."

"Well that seems reasonable—" Hopper began.

Mr. Gold cut him off with a snort. "Trust you and Ella? The last time I did, you enlisted his—" he jerked his thumb at Charming "—and Snow's help to lock me up for half a year in a cold dank cell."

"Come on, Mr. Gold," Charming said. "We've all agreed. Different world, different rules."

Thomas beamed an enchanting smile. "And don't forget. I spent half a year as a frog."

"Half a year? Hah." Mr. Gold jutted his chin out. "It's not my fault you couldn't get Ella to kiss you."

Thomas spread out his hands. "Is it my fault I was bending over a well to fetch her a drink when you changed me? I spent half a year at the bottom of a cold dank cell, too. I'd say we're even."

"Would you, dearie?" Picturing the predicament the prince had described, Mr. Gold found himself laughing. "For the old world, yes, we're even. But in this world I still require collateral for a loan."

* * *

As Charming shepherded Thomas out of the shop, Mr. Gold stared pensively at the blades heaped in the showcase. _What did Smee say he was looking for? __He can't possibly know about the Dark One's dagger, can he?_ He pointed at the lock and opened it.

Walking up behind him, Charming interrupted his thoughts with, "That was cold."

"Was it?" Mr. Gold snapped the lock shut and swung around on his cane. "Maybe in the Enchanted Forest, all Prince Thomas had to do was be _charming_, and he'd get anything he wanted. Here he must learn what we peasants have always known: acquiring anything takes hard work."

Hopper joined them. "Be fair. Thomas has pulled double shifts at the cannery for the last year. And Ella was pregnant for twenty-eight years. They've hardly had it easy."

"And you tried to take their baby," Charming added.

"Did I, dearie? And what do you think I'd have done with her? Eaten her in a stew? Skinned her to make a pair of gloves? Juggled her? _Pish tosh_. My deals where babies are concerned have meant many things, but never anything _bad_. Some I've placed in better situations. Your twin brother was raised as a prince because of one of my deals. And your peasant mum and dad got their own farm on which to raise you. I'd have found a similar good situation for Ella's baby here in Storybrooke if Thomas hadn't manned up to his responsibilities. Other babies I've _tutored_—once they were old enough to appreciate my instruction."

"Tutored? I'd hate to ask in what," Charming said.

Mr. Gold smiled sweetly. "Nothing you'd have had the brains to comprehend, dearie. As far as Mr. and Mrs. Prince Thomas are concerned, I'd have asked for a favor. And for their spoiled little princess to grow up knowing she owed it to me. As it stands, it's _your_ baby that owes me that favor."

Charming sighed. "Something Emma will never repay if she's there and we're here."

Mr. Gold grimaced. "I'm working on it," he muttered.

"_Working on it? _I didn't come today just to hear that again. I know about Dr. Whale's arm."

"And that I was practicing medicine without a license? Slap on the handcuffs, Sheriff."

Charming folded his arms. "In the last five minutes, I've seen you do two more tricks by flicking your wrist. If you can do all that, why can't you re-open the portal to bring my wife and child back from the Enchanted Forest?"

_If it's a demand, it must be a royal._ "I spent nearly three hundred years getting from the Enchanted Forest to here. And it took Emma another twenty-eight. Finding a way back for your family shouldn't take that long, but you can't expect me to accomplish it in less than four weeks."

"One day longer than it needs to take is one day too many." Charming paused. "You told me you were hampered by lack of research material. Would it help to learn your magic library ended up in the Storybrooke library—boxed up in the attic? Belle found it. Regina admitted she put it there."

_My books_. Mr. Gold looked aside before Charming could see his excitement. "Everything of any significance from the Enchanted Forest ended up in my shop—except _that._" With an airy wave of his hand, he turned away. "If Regina was so anxious to appropriate my library for herself, she must have had a good reason. Why don't you ask _her_ to help you?"

"I did. She said your books are in languages she doesn't understand. And besides…"

"Besides _what_?" Mr. Gold turned to face him. "You don't trust her."

"To bring back the two women she hates most in all the known universes? No, not really."

"Actually," Dr. Hopper butted in, "Regina doesn't trust herself. As she told us all at Town Hall, she's given up magic so she won't accidentally harm someone."

"Yes, yes. She's working her _program_. Step Five, I believe." Mr. Gold rolled his eyes. _I give it a month. _"And yet Charming trusts _me_. I'm touched."

"Matter of fact, I don't. But I trust your deals. You can have your books if you agree to spend the next week scouring them for a way to reach Emma and Snow."

"You're _bargaining _with me? For my own property?" Affronted, Mr. Gold rapped his cane on the floor. "I may have plucked you out of the peasantry, dearie, but you've certainly proved yourself a royal. Don't I have the right to my books the same as everyone has the right to recover their possessions from my shop? Or is it one set of rules for the favored and another for the disfavored?"

Charming stood his ground. "Fine. Give me a detailed description of each individual book. If I can identify it, I'll bring it to you. One by one. At three-day intervals. Or come to the library on my terms and have all of them now."

"The library." _And Belle_. Mr. Gold blinked. "No. I couldn't... I'd prefer—I'd be more comfortable… here."

Charming's cell phone buzzed. He pulled it from his jeans pocket and raised his eyebrows questioningly at Mr. Gold.

"Deliver my books before I close for the evening, and next week I'll report my findings. We have a deal."

* * *

_My books_. Mr. Gold rested on his cane and grinned. Somewhere, in some volume he'd overlooked, surely he'd discover the secret of how to break the spell that surrounded Storybrooke with a borderline of forgetfulness. Once he accomplished that he could finally leave and find his son Baelfire—without forgetting just who it was he was looking for. And, yes. How to pull Emma and Mary-Margaret back to Storybrooke—he'd uncover that secret, too.

He glanced up at Dr. Hopper. "If I remember correctly, one particularly ratty old volume contains everything there is to know about the art of transformation. Time has passed, but it's never too late to reunite a son with his mama and papa." When the counselor didn't smile, Mr. Gold frowned. "You didn't come about Geppetto's parents."

In acknowledgement, Dr. Hopper shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

"You came," Mr. Gold continued softly, "about his son."

"Yes." Dr. Hopper groaned. "Pinocchio's returning to his wooden state. He's nearly inanimate—just like those two." He stared at the silent marionettes.

_Not quite. _Mr. Gold closed his eyes to think. _This used to come so easily. Transformation. Transmogrification. Transmutation. Ahh!_ He opened his eyes. "Actually, Pinocchio's state is _not_ like those two. You said _nearly_."

Dr. Hopper hunched his shoulders. "He can blink. He can move his jaw. But he can't speak. He can no longer raise his hand from the blankets. The Blue Fairy told me—"

_Rheul Gorm. That bitch. __If it weren't for her, I'd never have been separated from Baelfire in the first place._ "It was her spell that animated Pinocchio, wasn't it? Well _that_ makes the solution to his current problem even simpler to understand. Strip away her sanctimonious tripe about the perils of lying and disobedience and he'll stop fading away."

Dr. Hopper's eyes widened behind his horn-rimmed glasses. "Do you really think so?"

Mr. Gold nodded. "Pinocchio lies to get his way. Neglects his responsibilities to have fun. Then he feels really bad about his behavior and tries to make it up to everyone. What could be more human than that? With the proper spell, we can fan that spark of humanity back into a flame, burn away the wood, and make him a real man again." _And Rheul Gorm will be livid_. He drew a deep, satisfying breath. "This task I can do. Expect me at Geppetto's by six."

"Tonight?" Dr. Hopper's pinched expression said the news was too good to be true. "But what about your deal with Charming? Shouldn't you be concentrating on how to open a portal?"

Mr. Gold waved his hand. "Unlike Pinocchio, Emma and Mary-Margaret can wait. They're not in danger of becoming inert. More likely, they're strolling the old palace gardens having a pleasant mother-daughter chat. Trust me. They're fine."

* * *

Emma stood with Mulan, Aurora, and her mother, Mary-Margaret, staring up at the cliff face.

"If we reach those ledges, we can have a good night's sleep safely hidden from Hook, Cora _and_ the ogres." Mulan's manner said she'd assessed the situation rationally and reached the best tactical conclusion.

Emma had come to trust her. She cocked her head to one side. "I've always liked highrises. But an elevator would be nice." The crevices the soldier was pointing out appeared to be at least six stories up.

"Elevator?" Mulan asked.

"Hard to explain," Mary-Margaret replied.

Emma glanced at Aurora. As always, any plan had to take into account their weakest link. "You're going to have to strip down to your corset and panties. You can't risk getting tripped up in your princess robes on a climb like this."

Aurora laughed nervously. "Don't worry. I'm not risking the climb at all."

"You have to," Mulan said in her usual no-nonsense way.

"Not in your dreams," Aurora said. "Or mine either, for that matter."

"Emma and I will go first and pull you up," Mary-Margaret said. "I knew rope would come in handy."

From the far end of the canyon, Emma heard the faint rumble of awakening ogres.

"We need to be camped up there by nightfall," Mulan advised.

Running her gaze up the jagged rock, Emma scouted a zigzagging ladder of cracks and bumps that reached the ledges. _Okay. I can do this_. She fastened all the zippers on her jacket, then reached for the first handhold and began clambering upwards.

"As easy as climbing a beanstalk," she called out to her friends. _So long as I don't look down._

* * *

Smee squeezed the spray handle on the hose to squirt the shelves of houseplants. If Moe had been in the back of _Game of Thorns_, he would have made quick work of it. But since his boss was watching, he had to be careful not to splash the cutesy display cards—_spectacular spathiphyllum_, _delightful dieffenbachia_, _comforting castanospermum_.

Glancing at his boss, Smee caught him touching his hard-to-find biscuit tin. He whipped around, spraying the wall before remembering to release the handle. "Hey, don't open that."

Moe looked at him askance. "I wouldn't want to. Just get it out of sight so customers don't think it's for sale. Whatever's inside must be rotten."

Smee nodded. _You have no idea_.

When he'd first heard the box's juicy secrets, he'd thought he'd lucked out. Finally, he had something valuable enough to trade for a second childhood. But luckily for him, the Dark One had blown him off. His mere attempt to find a better offer had made the box displeased.

Tentatively, Smee touched the burn on his cheek. Still painful. Who'd have thought such a rusty old box could hold such a powerful white light?

Moe wrestled on his heavy jacket and grabbed the zippered banker's bag with the day's earnings. "I'm making a deposit. Can you lock up after you bring the displays inside? Oh, and take the trash to the curb."

"You've got it, boss." Smee turned off the faucet and hung up the hose. Smiling, he ambled over to the biscuit tin. Oh, he'd take the trash to the curb, all right. He wondered how displeased the box would be when it found itself on the way to the dump.

* * *

Mr. Gold labored up the steep, narrow winding staircase that led to the eagle's nest third floor of Geppetto's dockside house. Above him, the elderly woodcarver was running to the top for the fourth time. Beneath him he heard Dr. Hopper take another step, then pause patiently while Mr. Gold planted his good foot on the stair above him, slid his hand up the rail, repositioned his cane, and dragged up his bad leg.

_I'm pitiful_, he said to himself.

Yet again, he heard Geppetto scamper down the stairs. The kind whiskered face peeked around the corner and beamed down at him. "Almost there." Then the old man raced back up.

Mr. Gold heaved himself onto the next step. "How long has Pinocchio been here?"

"Only since yesterday," Dr. Hopper answered behind him.

"Hm," Mr. Gold replied. "Where was he before?"

"In the forest. We were lucky to find him. Pongo caught his scent."

_His scent?_ "Really, now." With his next hop, Mr. Gold rounded the turn and saw the top landing with Geppetto backlit in the bedroom doorway, waving to him. "What kind of wood is he made of that Pongo could differentiate him from the trees?"

Mr. Gold managed five more stairs before Dr. Hopper responded. "Well, it wasn't the scent of wood Pongo caught. Apparently… another dog had marked him."

Mr. Gold snickered the rest of the way to the top.

* * *

A low growl reverberated through the canyon walls. _The ogres are out in force this evening_, Emma thought and wedged herself as far as she could into the rock fissure. It was her turn to sleep while her Mom kept watch on the outer edge, and she wanted to leave as much room as possible. If Mary-Margaret snoozed off, the drop down was terrifyingly deep.

Not that she could sleep with her empty stomach rumbling and the ogres howling.

On the rock shelf below, Aurora whimpered. Was she having one of her nightmares again?

Above her, Mulan hissed, "Shush."

"They're close," Emma whispered, her eyes trained on Mary-Margaret, her own private sentinel.

She more sensed than saw her mother look back over her shoulder. "We're safe here, darling. Get some rest."

_Not likely_. Nearly a month and she still couldn't get used to the night sounds of the Enchanted Forest. "How could you have fond memories of this world? It's awful."

"You mean the ogres?" Mary-Margaret sighed. "They didn't used to be like this. At least, not in my lifetime. A year before the curse, some towns were assaulted. Avonlea fell to them. But that wasn't typical. I'd never seen an ogre myself until that night we were attacked."

"Really? Then how did you know—"

"Where to shoot? Target practice. When I was a child, if I hit the straw ogre in the eye, I got a lollipop."

From the ledge above, Emma heard a muffled _harrumph_. "For a soldier," Mulan whispered, "not hitting the target in the eye meant a flogging. As part of our training, we were also taken to observe them—from a distance. We couldn't shoot, though, or we'd endanger the truce."

"Truce? With ogres?" _I didn't even think they had a language._

Emma heard rustling from below. "Yes, truce," Aurora murmured. "My great-great-great-great-great-grandfather King Cedric decreed it."

Above her, Mulan _harrumphed_ again. Emma heard her Mom chuckle, then whisper down to Aurora. "That's just the usual palace history. In other words, _lies_. According to _my_ schoolbooks, it was _my_ ancestor King Anthony that put the truce in place."

"It wasn't a king," Mulan whispered. "It was an imp. A magical being with special skills and absolutely no fear: Rumplestiltskin."

"Rumplestiltskin?" Emma repeated. "Isn't that—"

"Mr. Gold, yes," Mary-Margaret confirmed. "That's the _true_ story."

Emma exhaled slowly. "Mr. Gold. I might've known. If anyone could strike a deal with ogres, it's—"

A snarl high above cut her short. Aurora squealed. Immediately, gravel rained down and Mary-Margaret scooted backwards into the crevice. Emma hugged her close.

The clatter of falling rocks continued. Then Emma heard a new sound—a kind of scrabbling.

"I think the ogre is trying to reach down," Mary-Margaret breathed.

Emma swallowed. Mulan had situated them too high for an ogre to snatch them from below. Had she also made sure they were far enough down?

"Mulan!" Aurora wailed. "Don't leave me alone!"

"Shhh!" Emma, Mary-Margaret, and Mulan hushed in chorus.

The rock shower stopped, replaced by snuffling. Emma bit her lip. _None of us has bathed in a week. He can smell us. _

"Aurora's ledge is deeper," Mulan said at last. "I'm coming down to join her."

Mulan's boot dipped into view. Emma secured one arm around a stone outcropping and her other around her mother. "Help her."

Mary-Margaret clasped Mulan around her legs and let her slip through, down to her armpits. Then she lowered her.

"Oh, thank you," Aurora gasped as Mulan got her footing below.

A rock clunked on Mulan's helmet. Then she wriggled from Mary-Margaret's arms and out of sight.

A sharp crack sounded above her, and Emma hugged Mary-Margaret tight. Then a torrent of rocks and choking dust cascaded down.

"These ledges," her Mom whispered. "They're just the right size for ogre handholds."

Without speaking further, Emma released Mary-Margaret. Both women drew their blades.

* * *

Leaning heavily on his cane, aching and tired from his steep climb, Mr. Gold peered around Pinocchio's dimly lit bedroom. The attic chamber was a wee lad's paradise—fierce dragons and feckless knights carved into the paneling, a wooden train running around a high shelf, whittled astronauts and dinosaurs scattered across the floor. Mr. Gold wondered if the curse that created Storybrooke had somehow prepared for Pinocchio's presence and then been cheated when Geppetto had hidden his son in the magical wardrobe and sent him ahead of the curse with Emma.

Sighing, Mr. Gold gestured to one of the child-sized stools—"If you would be so kind"—and waited while Geppetto arranged it next to his boy's bed.

Gratefully, Mr. Gold lowered himself onto it, propped his cane against the nightstand, and slid the stool closer to his patient. He noted with amusement that the wooden man's nose was at least a foot long.

"Can you hear me, Pinocchio? Blink once for yes, twice for no."

The wooden lids over the painted staring eyes blinked once.

"Do you feel better this evening?"

One blink and the nose grew longer.

"I'm here to help. You trust me, don't you?"

Pinocchio blinked once for _yes_, but his telltale nose shot out a full inch.

Mr. Gold laughed. Then he swiveled to face Geppetto and Dr. Hopper. "I'm going to ask our young friend some very personal questions. Right now, lying is deleterious to his health. He'll be less likely to do that if he's not surrounded by his loved ones. When I'm done, I'll rap my cane on the floor."

Geppetto frowned doubtfully, but Dr. Hopper took his arm. "He's right. In counseling I'd never let a child's parents eavesdrop on a session."

Mr. Gold waited until the two left, the bedroom door clicked shut, and their scuffling shoes could no longer be heard on the stairs. Then he bent low over Pinocchio to whisper in his ear. "I should destroy you, shouldn't I—after that trick you played on me. It was cruel stirring my hopes, taking advantage of my grief, making me think you were my son, wringing tears from me just to further your scheme to get your hands on my dagger and make me your slave. By rights, I should conjure a fire and incinerate you in your bed." To prove he could, he formed a small flame on the palm of his hand.

Mr. Gold studied his patient for a reaction. Despite his threats, the face remained impassive—wooden, in fact. Not a single twitch of emotion betrayed what he was thinking. No wonder Rheul Gorm had included such a heavy dose of guilt in her animating spell that any lie would be as plain as the nose on Pinocchio's face. With a living marionette, how else would one tell?

Mr. Gold snuffed out the ball of fire and arranged his own features into an expression of benevolence. "But you feel bad about hoodwinking me, don't you?"

This time one blink caused Pinocchio's nose to grow shorter.

"You were desperate, weren't you?"

Blink, shrink.

"You thought controlling the Dark One was your only option."

Blink, shrink.

"Somebody else put you up to it."

The eyelids froze. For a moment, Mr. Gold feared Pinocchio had truly gone inert—right in the middle of his interrogation. Then the wooden man blinked twice. And the nose grew.

Mr. Gold pursed his lips in an exaggeration of parental disapproval. "As I said, Pinocchio August Wayne Booth Polendina, lying to me isn't healthy. Or are you more afraid of your accomplice than you are of me?"

Blink, shrink.

"Ahh," said Mr. Gold.

* * *

**Hello, again:** Please comment! It means a lot.


	3. Do You Know the Rules?

_**For those who don't know Once Upon a Time ... no additional backstory needed to follow this chapter. For those who do... in this backstory, Pinocchio doesn't know Neal's other identity; the Blue Fairy used a different method for convincing Neal to let Emma follow her destiny. Read on!**_

* * *

_**Chapter 3**_

**Do You Know the Rules?**

**Mr. Gold/Rumplestiltskin**: Good! That's going to save us time during the question and answer portion of our game (_The Crocodile_)

The fear Pinocchio felt from being left helpless with Mr. Gold was paralyzing—or would have been if he hadn't already relapsed into wood. When the curse broke, his dread at facing his father's disappointment had sent him deep into the forest. Geppetto had charged him with looking after baby Emma. Selfishly, he'd abandoned her to some pretty mean foster parents the first chance he'd had to run away. Ever since, his life as the intrepid August W. Booth had been a series of adventures, escapes, and punishments—the latter dispensed by the loving hand of the Blue Fairy. Wandering among the trees reviewing his pitiful life, Pinocchio had found that imagining his father's disappointment was as disheartening as witnessing it would have been. After a few weeks' rumination, guilt had sapped the life out of him. By the time he'd heard his godfather Jiminy whoop _Eureka! He's here!_ Pinocchio could barely move.

Now his existence had been reduced to two choices: lie to Mr. Gold and have his nose betray him, or tell the truth and face retaliation.

"Before you showed up in Storybrooke, you had a contact."

Mr. Gold's voice sounded hollow, but the words were clear. Afraid not to respond, Pinocchio blinked once.

"This contact knew all about your other identity, my other identity, the curse that brought us here, everything."

Blink.

"This contact was Mother Superior, better known to you as the Blue Fairy."

Pinocchio froze—too terrified to lie to Mr. Gold, too respectful to betray the wondrous and perilous being who had granted him life and repeatedly demonstrated she could take it away.

After a long pause, his tormentor said, "Well, this is a dilemma. I require an answer. But I've broached a subject where it's not so simple for you to be a good little marionette and obey. To make things easier, I'll give you another option: blink three times for _decline to say_."

Pinocchio felt a faint stirring in his wooden chest. Hurriedly, he gave three blinks. The blessing of a third choice seemed like a breath of air.

"As I'd thought," Mr. Gold murmured. Then, more loudly, "Honesty _is_ the best policy. A few more truthful responses should shrink your nose to normal. Ready to try?"

Pinocchio blinked.

"Ruby is the tastiest dish on the diner's menu."

The unexpected statement threw Pinocchio for a moment. Then he blinked once.

"Dogs should be allowed to run free on public lands."

Strangely, Mr. Gold's voice sounded less muted. Pinocchio could detect an undertone of amusement. He blinked twice.

"When you were little, nothing was more important than obeying Jiminy Cricket."

Blink, blink, blink.

"You've hated every moment you've lived in this _world without magic_ and wish you'd never been sent here."

Once more, Pinocchio didn't know how to respond. Images of growing up raced through his head—the exhilaration of shimmying down an orphanage drainpipe, the ignominy of being hauled back in a cop car, the joy of enthralling the other kids with his escapades, the satisfaction of his first hook-up, the gloom of yet another rejection letter, the pride of finally seeing his name in print. _And lemurs_, he thought. _Don't forget reaching Madagascar and discovering lemurs. You don't hate this world at all. _But before he could blink twice, he remembered his father and their 28-year separation. _I hated being sent to this world_.

"So. Life is too complex for only three choices. Shocking." Dimly, Pinocchio could make out Mr. Gold's pale, grave face. "Open and close your jaw once if your answer is partially _yes_ and partially _no_."

Pinocchio tried it. The joy of moving his mouth to communicate—even without words—made him tingle all over.

Mr. Gold leaned closer. "The Blue Fairy is a real bitch, isn't she?"

The abrupt question unnerved Pinocchio. How could he answer? If he allowed the scamp in him to blink once for _yes_, what if _she_ found out? She was his mother—nearly. He was fearful of hurting her feelings. Yet he suspected a simple two blinks for _no_ would make his nose grow, and three blinks for _decline to say_ would be just as telling.

Pinocchio was about to drop his jaw for _partially yes and partially no _when Mr. Gold said, "Let me rephrase." His voice was soothing. "From the moment you first opened your eyes you've known your life depended on the Blue Fairy. To obey meant consciousness, to disobey meant being a block of wood. No matter how much your rebellious mind sought other possibilities, when duty called, the guilt she'd instilled in you would pull you back. She may have granted your father's wish to see you move without strings, but for all the freedom she allowed, you might as well have remained a marionette."

Pinocchio sighed. The Blue Fairy had always been a bit domineering.

"I've seen Henry's book. It doesn't do you justice. When you saved your father from the storm, the Blue Fairy made you _a real boy_—as if you'd _earned_ it. But you didn't give Geppetto the only life preserver because you were trying to prove yourself _brave, truthful and unselfish_. You gave it to him out of love."

Pinocchio blinked once. His eyes felt moist.

"Forget obedience. What made you real was your love for your father. Your love for him, for Jiminy, for yourself, for the whole great wide world—that's the only thing you need to keep you human."

Pinocchio began to weep. He pressed his fingers against his eyelids to squeeze out the tears. The Blue Fairy had sorely misjudged Mr. Gold. He should have known from the man's sobs when he'd lied and called him Papa how compassionate Mr. Gold could be; instead, he'd let her intolerance cloud his insight. With her everything was yes or no, brave or cowardly, truth or lie, selfless or selfish, good or evil. She refused to see something could be both.

When he opened his eyes again, he saw Mr. Gold studying him. Pinocchio began to smile. Then, quick as a cobra, the older man grabbed his wrist and twisted his hand away from his tear-soaked face. Aghast, Pinocchio watched the soft lips curve in the snaggle-toothed sneer he remembered so well from when he'd been jammed against the tree with Gold's dagger at his throat.

"What happens in the next few minutes, dearie, depends on you. Provide the answers I need, and soon you'll be enjoying the hugs and laughter of your dear old dad. Cross me and you'll regret it. Your love may have made you human. My power can make you kindling."

Mr. Gold released him and folded his hands in his lap. "Now that we've set the rules, tell me who drew you the sketch of the dagger that bears my name. In words, please. The blinking thing is getting tiresome."

* * *

Emma stabbed at the ogre's thumb, aiming for the cuticle. She knew ogre hide was thick enough to deflect steel. Luckily, the ogre was trying to reach them by hanging over the cliffside head first. Once his face came in range, they'd skewer him in his soft, vulnerable eye.

_Unless he gets us first._

With her next stab, Mary-Margaret's blade snapped. She moaned. Immediately, she grabbed a rock and began pounding the ogre's index finger.

_That's my Mom_, Emma thought. _A real warrior princess_. Unlike Aurora, screeching her lungs out below them.

"Can't Mulan shut her up?" Emma muttered. Something glimmered on the horizon. _Moonrise? It couldn't be dawn. _

But whatever the light was, it didn't scare the ogre. His index finger poked Mary-Margaret in the chest, shoving her against the rock. Emma gasped and gripped her mother's arm, trying to yank her free. In the faint glow, she could see desperation on Mary-Margaret's pale face. Giving up on freeing her mother, Emma jabbed her blade under the ogre's nail.

The monster roared.

"It's distracted," Mary-Margaret rasped. "Save yourself."

"I'm not leaving you."

"Live. For Henry's sake."

Abruptly, the ogre yanked its hand away, using it instead to bat the air. Emma saw her mother's eyes widen.

"That sparkle! Fairies!"

Emma swiveled on her haunches to look where Mary-Margaret was pointing. A dozen flickering beings were darting around the wildly swinging ogre—like highly intelligent gnats determined to drive it mad. The figures sparkled, whizzed, and lunged just out of the ogre's reach. _Fairies?_

"Can't catch me, you stupid old ogre!" one of them sang out in a strangely childish voice. The ogre swatted in its direction but connected with air.

"Nya, nya, nya, nya, nya," chirruped another.

Enraged, the ogre let go of the ledge with its other hand and thrust out both arms to snatch its tormentors.

_Can an ogre hang on a cliff by its toes?_ Emma wondered.

With a bellow that shook the stone ledge beneath their crouching bodies, the ogre proved the answer was _No _as it bounced off the crag, whooshed past, and crashed with a _Boom!_ in the abyss below.

Emma buried her face against Mary-Margaret and felt her Mom pressing hers into her shoulder as dirt and gravel deluged them.

When it was over, she heard, "Are these the ones, Tink?" followed by a bell-like jingle.

Raising her head, shaking debris out of her hair, Emma gawked at the small twinkling figure hovering just beyond the lip of their crevice. _Not a fairy_, she thought. _That's a little boy._

* * *

"Don't be bashful," Mr. Gold murmured.

Pinocchio continued lying on his cot making _ahem_ and _hmm_ noises. Now that he was flesh again, he couldn't work up the energy to speak. His muscles ached from being stiff for so long. His mouth was dry from dehydration. The faint smell of Geppetto's cooking wafting up through the floorboards reminded him he hadn't eaten since the spell broke. That Mr. Gold had retrieved his cane and was idly drumming his fingers on the brass handle made him feel weaker still. He suspected a sharp rap would really hurt.

_At least he'll no longer be able to tell if I'm lying._ Not so the Blue Fairy. She could tell. She could always tell.

"I know what the legends say," Mr. Gold continued softly. "Speak the creature's name and she shall appear, but magic works differently here. I don't know what powers _she _has regained, but I rather doubt popping in and out of rooms at will is one of them."

_You'd be surprised_. A dozen years before, the Blue Fairy had managed to ship herself to him in a small wooden box so he could take her to see Emma's baby daddy. How she'd convinced the poor man to ditch the love of his life remained a mystery, but she always accomplished what she said she would. If she wasn't flitting around Pinocchio's bedroom this very minute, she was still flitting about inside his head.

Mr. Gold loomed forward, training his hypnotic brown eyes on Pinocchio's. "Whisper it if you must, dearie, but I will have your answer."

Pinocchio let the vulnerability and anxiety he felt show on his face. It would make repeating the story the Blue Fairy had concocted for him the previous spring all the more convincing. "You're right. _She_ gave me the drawing. Baelfire drew it in exchange for a magic bean."

As soon as he'd spoken, Pinocchio regretted it. At the sound of his son's name, all the muscles in Mr. Gold's face went rigid. Deep lines creased his brow. He compressed his lips as if to keep them from trembling. Then he jerked his head in swift denial. "She lied."

Pinocchio allowed himself a tip of his chin—a tacit _you may be right_—but he could see that the doubt his words had planted lingered.

"It's clear you don't really know and you have nothing more to tell me." Mr. Gold pressed his fingers against his forehead and shook his head vigorously. "Good. Let me finish what I promised Dr. Hopper." Standing his cane against the nightstand, he reached into the inner pocket of his black pinstripe suit to pull out a vial of orange liquid. "Your marionette status is demoralizing—not knowing if this is the day some chance cowardly, dishonest, selfish deed will revert you to wood forever. With _thi_s that ends." He tapped the side of the bottle. As the potion began to glow, he passed his other hand over the bed. Gradually, silver strings appeared, tied to Pinocchio's jaw, elbows, and wrists and leading up to Mr. Gold's fingers.

"What the hell?" Pinocchio breathed.

Mr. Gold smiled. "You didn't know these were there, did you—waiting for the next puppeteer with an inclination to make you jump."

When Mr. Gold waggled his fingers, Pinocchio could feel his head jerk back-and-forth while his arms lifted off the bedcovers in a mockery of a shrug. Then his chin dropped, and his mouth opened wide. Mr. Gold blew on the bottle and the stopper fizzed away. He poured the bubbling potion down Pinocchio's throat until he spluttered and gagged.

"Drink up. That's a good little marionette. This is the last action you'll ever take because someone else is pulling the strings."

Pinocchio felt his temperature rise in the worst fever he'd had in his life. His skin was so hot the silver threads frazzled like hair too close to a candle. In a moment they were gone, leaving nothing but a nasty stink in the air. The heat remained. He gritted his teeth to keep from crying out. _I'm turning into kindling!_

Mr. Gold's uncommonly large eyes smoldered with the same uncanny fire sizzling through Pinocchio's body. "Oh, yeah. It burns. Rheul Gorm wove her threads deep."

Pinocchio moaned. How could it end this way? The Blue Fairy had told him if he came to her before he did anything, things would work out. He had. They hadn't.

Then the impossible happened. Just as quickly as they had started, the flames were gone. Extinguished. Doused. Snuffed. A delicious coolness flooded his body. He pressed his string-free hands against his stubbly cheeks. _Temperature: Normal_. Pinocchio took a deep breath, luxuriating in his newfound, absolute, unadulterated humanity. "I need a trim."

Mr. Gold gave him a sardonic smile. Picking up his cane, he thumped it once on the floor.

* * *

Emma stared, bemused, at the hovering boy. Black-haired, brown-eyed, green-clad, he appeared to be a little younger than Henry. No wings or apparatus explained his ability to stay aloft—only the cloud of crystal dust that shimmered around him. _Fairy dust! I know this story. What's that other thing he needs to fly? _Beyond him, a posse of smaller boys twinkled and soared. The tiny green light flickered and jingled beside the boy's ear. _Tinkerbelle?_

"I've never seen anything like them in the Enchanted Forest," Mary-Margaret whispered.

Emma smiled. "That's because they're not from around here. They're Lost Boys."

"Of course. Neverland. I read _Peter Pan and Wendy_ to my fourth-grade class. They're the nemesis of Captain Hook."

"You know Hook?!" The hovering boy scowled.

"Well, yes. Sort of, but—" Emma began.

The green light flared.

"They're Hook's wenches!" the boy shouted. "Secure their weapons."

Two of the smaller boys sped toward them.

"Oh, really?" Emma muttered. Before she had time to turn her short sword safely handle out, the curly-headed one grabbed it.

"Ouch!" he shrieked, and a wisp of sparkles swirled away from his hand as her blade fell into the chasm.

"Mine broke," Mary-Margaret said to the cherub-faced boy. "But tell your friends to take our friends' scabbards, too. Children shouldn't fly with unsheathed blades."

At her mother's admonition, the cherub folded his arms and pouted—a boy who wasn't going to do something a grownup said _ever_. Ignoring him, young master curly whipped a rope of vines out of nowhere and strung it around the both of them.

"Wait a minute!" Emma said, pulling off the clumsy loops as fast as he added them. "Wait!" She could hear Mulan and Aurora making a similar commotion with their would-be captors on the ledge below.

The hovering boy planted his hands on his hips. "No need to tie 'em, men. Grab 'em by the scruffs of their necks. Once we're flying, they won't struggle."

_Flying?_ "No! Stop! … Peter," Emma hazarded, "we're on _your_ side."

"Naw. You're with Hook. Tink saw you. And I'm not Peter."

The curly-top grabbed Emma's hand and the cherub grabbed Mary-Margaret's. The two began tugging. Emma dug her boots against the crevice's lip. Without warning, the boys dropped their hands, clambered onto their laps and jabbed their fingers into their sides. In an instant, Emma was mad as hell and giggling hysterically.

"Stop tickling! You can't… expect us to… fly…" Her mother sounded frantic amidst her gasping laughter. "Let us explain… to your leader… Go… get… Peter…."

Suddenly, the hovering boy looked utterly lost. "We can't. We can't see him—not ever, ever again." He started to snivel. "Peter left to grow up."

* * *

Smee took one last look at the rusted up biscuit tin lying atop moldering lilies, wilted chrysanthemums, and squashed sunflower heads. Being crushed in the garbage truck compactor tomorrow morning would serve it right.

He slapped the dumpster lid down and wheeled it to the curb for pick up. Whistling, he sauntered through the backdoor of _Game of Thorns_, locked it, and headed for the cash register. If he was lucky, he'd find some loose change on the floor. One time he'd even pocketed a customer's gold earring.

Rounding the rack of decorative doormats, Smee stopped cold. _It can't be_. The box was sitting atop the checkout counter. Apprehensively, he took three more steps and craned his neck. Yes. The scratched up wreathe of Christmas bells adorning the lid identified it as the very same hard-to-find object the pipsqueak had dug up that morning.

As the hook unlatched and the lid creaked open, Smee froze. If anything, the light inside looked hotter and brighter than it had that afternoon.

"No! No! No!" Smee threw his hands up to shield his face. Then he shrieked as the punishing white light seared his knuckles.

* * *

Pinocchio raised his forehead from where he'd nuzzled it on his father's shoulder. Snug inside his embrace, Geppetto still quivered—half laughing, half crying. Behind him, Jiminy shuffled from foot to foot, squeezing his arm and mumbling, "We were worried. We were so worried." The welcome home affection of two of his three most-important-people-in-the-world filled him with happiness like he'd never known. And yet his attention kept straying beyond the circle of lamplight to the man waiting in the darkness on the far side of the attic: Mr. Gold—wizard, healer, reckoner. _What does he want from me?_

Finally, Pinocchio's anxiety got the better of him. "You haven't told us your price." He smiled, trying to soften his suspicion with a hint of friendliness. Inside, he was worried. What if Mr. Gold wasn't satisfied with the information he'd squeezed out of him? What if he asked for a favor?

His father twisted around. "Anything you want! Anything at all! You've brought my boy back!"

"He's truly a real man?" Jiminy asked, sounding as if he didn't dare believe it. "No more relapses? He's _cured_?"

"No payment is too great for that!" Geppetto said happily.

Pinocchio couldn't make out Mr. Gold's face in the shadows, but he caught his little shrug. "I have a music box that's skipping some notes."

"When I'm done, that box will sing like the angels."

"I value your skills." Mr. Gold cocked his head. "And I missed supper. If you wrap me a slice of that pork I smell roasting, our account is settled."

"Wrap a slice? I'm cooking it for you! That's not an account. That's an invitation."

Mr. Gold hesitated. "An… invitation?"

"Let me check the polenta." Geppetto hurried to the door.

With his usual lopsided gait, Mr. Gold entered the light. "Hope it doesn't burn while you're waiting for me to climb down the stairs."

"I can lend you a hand…" Jiminy's voice trailed off awkwardly.

"No. You go ahead. Pinocchio will keep me from tumbling."

His winning smile didn't calm Pinocchio. Swallowing hard, he watched his godfather head for the door. When he saw Mr. Gold keep pace despite his limp he thought, _Maybe he won't need me after all. _But on the landing the older man paused, gesturing for assistance. Reluctantly, Pinocchio joined him, took the cane from his hand and stooped to offer his shoulder. Neither spoke as they began their descent, Pinocchio lifting, swinging, and lowering his menacing benefactor step-by-step.

When he was sure Jiminy was out of earshot down the winding staircase, he just had to check—one more time—"Repairing a music box? That's _it_?"

"The music box is a bonus. My real payment is spoiling Rheul Gorm's plans."

Pinocchio coughed. "She doesn't have any plans for me." _Not at the moment._

"Your back tenses when you lie." Mr. Gold chuckled. "Don't be alarmed. I know your relationship is complex. The next time she calls on you, you'll _want_ to come. You'll feel _obligated_ to come. But if you're on the other side of the globe, engrossed in some exciting intrigue, you _won't _come. Without strings to pull, _she's_ nothing. Unless she's animated some other marionette I don't know about, she'll have to find another way to work her manipulations."

In silence, Pinocchio helped Mr. Gold down several more stairs. He had to admit, the man had him pegged, but his apparent loathing of the Blue Fairy was a bit disturbing. Sure, she could be strict. _But who doesn't like fairies?_

"And if I'm wrong," Mr. Gold added, "and you ever dare spy on me for her again, your humanity gives me an advantage. Wood can't feel pain."

* * *

As the hovering boy wept, he lost buoyancy. He let out a sob and dropped half a foot. Blinking and tinkling, the green light zigzagged frantically around his head.

_Oh, no_, Emma thought between gasping giggles. _Without happy thoughts that's a long way down_.

"Enough!" She grabbed the curly-haired boy's wrists, wrestled his tickling fingers away from her ribcage, and held him, wriggling, at arm's length. "What makes you Neverland kids happy? Puppies? Ice cream? Christmas?"

The boy glowered.

She spun him around. "Quick! He's falling."

When he saw, he tore from her grasp and—grabbing the cherub's hand—sped to his friend. The others swiftly rallied, circling Peter Pan's bawling successor, yanking him up by his leafy green tunic, and shouting a jumble of flight worthy notions in his face.

"Happy thoughts!" Mary-Margaret encouraged them.

Out of the cacophony of cheery ideas, the boy picked one. First he mumbled it. Then he declared it. Instantly, he bobbed back up in the air. The others fell into chorus with him until it became a battle cry: "Kill Hook! Kill Hook! Kill Hook!"

The fairy dust eddied around them like a glitter whirligig. No longer just hovering, the Lost Boys put on a twinkling aerial display of corkscrews, cartwheels, and back flips.

"_Kill Hook_?" Mary-Margaret breathed. "Where does that leave _Hook's wenches_?"

* * *

**Hi, there:** Please review. Tell me what you think!


	4. We'll Have that Little Chat

_**Chapter 4**_

**We'll Have That Little Chat**

**Jefferson the Mad Hatter**: Two lives in our heads, cursed worse than ever (_We Are Both_).

Mr. Gold slid his knife through the fennel seed, rosemary, and crushed garlic crust into the tender porchetta. This invitation was his first decent meal in weeks. Though he enjoyed cooking, since Belle had left, he hadn't had the heart to turn on his stove. As he savored another bite, he saw his host smile. _I'm expected to make dinner conversation_, he reminded himself.

"This is excellent. Where did you learn the recipe?"

"From Mama, back in Cortona. That's the village in Tuscany where I was born." The smile faded from Geppetto's face. "Except that I wasn't born there, was I? Even though that childhood seems so real to me—Mama baking Brutti ma Buoni in the kitchen, Papa carving angels for the tourists."

Mr. Gold nodded. "I could swear I studied at the University of Glasgow School of Law. I remember chilly lecture halls, towers of books, endless pots of coffee." _And nearly being expelled for cheating on the Conveyancing exam until I found dirt on the professor and struck a non-interference deal. Even my sham past is disreputable._

Pinocchio continued scooping pork, polenta, and peas into his mouth but his glances at his dinner companions were keenly interested. Wiping his chin with his red checkered napkin, he said, "Before I wrote _Jakarta Never Forgives_ I created bios for all my characters. I amassed a lot of detail to make them true to life, but that doesn't mean any of it actually happened."

Dr. Hopper lay down his fork. "At first, I thought our cursed personas were purely imaginary. But last week I had a visit from Sir Frederick and Princess Abigail—you'll remember her Storybrooke self, Kathryn Nolan, was married to Charming's? Without going into their personal issues, I can say that as Kathryn Nolan, she was accepted to Boston College Law School. But how _could_ she be unless her Vassar transcripts and LSAT scores really exist?"

"I don't think _anybody_ knows everything about how the curse came off," Mr. Gold replied. "I don't think _anybody_ has worked out all the details logically." He glanced from Marco-Geppetto to Hopper-Jiminy. Did either of them know the part he'd played?

Dr. Hopper's eyebrows knitted together. Then he cleared his throat. "I—I've been wondering whether we've all… _replaced_ people in this world."

_There he goes again—Storybrooke's most decent man seeking reasons to feel guilty. _"That _can't_ be it. For the most part, everyone looks as they did in the Enchanted Forest. So we're _not_ inhabiting other people's bodies—nor their lives. Pinocchio's—or should I say August's—theory is better. Like a writer, the curse constructed fake biographies. To make them believable, it added documentation as well as memories." And like his memories, Mr. Gold's documentation oozed misery—a _Daily Express_ clipping of his alleged fiancée's leap off Erskine Bridge. And all the while, his real sweetheart had been held under false pretences in Storybrooke Hospital's lockup ward. _My darling Belle._ He'd assumed Regina had decreed his history be wretched just to amuse herself, but now he wondered whether Rheul Gorm had pulled some strings. If she hadn't been under the curse, had she been on top of it?

Dr. Hopper removed his glasses. "I can still picture my roommate at SUNY. Vincent Chalmers. Our road trip to New Orleans was outstanding. I've looked him up on the Net. He teaches at Rutgers. If I contacted him, do you think he'd have memories of me, too?"

Mr. Gold noted the wistfulness in Dr. Hopper's blue eyes. "I'd wager he even has photos." At his words, the doctor's expression brightened. _So, I'm not the only one with more of a stake in this world than the old. _How soon before he'd find the magic to cross the Storybrooke border without losing his memory? How soon before he could finally reunite with his son and beg his forgiveness for letting him go?

"But what about your ages?" Pinocchio asked Dr. Hopper. "Isn't Chalmers twenty-eight years older than you are now?"

The psychologist returned his glasses to his nose. "That's the strange part. He's not. In my memory, we earned our Clin Psy doctorates twenty years ago—even though I now know I was already a counselor in Storybrooke at the time. If the curse had ended earlier, would I share fond memories with a different roommate?"

_I'd share fond memories with no one. Just like now_. Mr. Gold took a sip of pinot.

"Amazing," Pinocchio said, brushing baguette crumbs from his beard. "For twenty-eight years, all around this world, memories were forming and fading, documentation was appearing and disappearing, just to maintain the curse? That's incredibly complex."

Mr. Gold set down his wine glass. _Yes, it was._ So complex that perhaps it had required one more author than he'd realized.

* * *

Sailing through the night, high above the Enchanted Forest, held aloft by four kids, Emma thought touchdown couldn't come fast enough. Despite her fear of flying—at least via Lost Boys—she couldn't complain aloud. After all, telling chubby under her right arm to cover his mouth when he sneezed or pointing out to freckle-face under her left arm that his squirming made her airsick weren't happy thoughts_. _

In the pale moonlight, she could see that even Aurora was doing her best to smile.

_So when are we getting to Neverland? _

Below her, the forest gave way to what looked like a swamp. The croaking of frogs and the fetid odor rising with the curling mist confirmed it. Here and there flames spouted from the muck, accompanied by a popping sound.

After they'd traversed a few miles of desolation, the boys stopped doing whatever it was that made them fly forward and began dropping. Fast. As mud and stone rushed toward her, Emma screamed a long, agonized, "Ohhhhhhhhhhhh!" The thought of lying mangled on the ground wasn't happy, but she couldn't help herself.

A few inches from death, the boys came to a complete stop. Emma swung crazily between them. Then the two holding her ankles gently lowered her feet until she was standing on a mossy boulder overlooking a makeshift camp. The lean-tos were hidden in bracken and strewn with leaves. A mat of vines covered what looked like a charcoal-smudged circle of rocks.

When Aurora landed, she sank to all fours and vomited. Mulan strode off—scouting. As soon as her mother was standing, Emma hugged her. "It looks like we're not prisoners after all."

She heard a _Pop!_ and a fire blazed up a few feet away. In its light Emma saw an I'm-not-so-sure-about-that look on Mary-Margaret's face. "The Lost Boys don't need to tie us up. We're in the middle of the Fire Swamp. The lightning sand, fire spouts, and ROUS will keep us from running."

Emma raised an eyebrow. "ROUS?"

"Rodents of Unusual Size."

"If that's what I smell cooking," Emma said, "I'm going to eat it anyway. I'm starving."

* * *

Archie accepted a couple of iced anisette cookies from Geppetto and swiveled on the couch to pass the platter. He paused when he saw Mr. Gold surreptitiously rubbing the back of his bad leg through his black pinstripe gabardine pants. His grimace said the pain was sharp.

"Would a hot pack help? Or maybe ice?" Archie asked.

Mr. Gold straightened up and put on a smile. "Don't trouble yourself. It's an old injury."

"How old?" Geppetto asked. His expression was sympathetic.

For an instant, Mr. Gold's brown eyes widened, startled like a deer's. Evidently, nobody asked him questions like this. At first he shrugged, but his gaze remained locked with Geppetto's. Then he took a deep breath. "When I was small, the master tasked me with gathering the sheep for shearing. Lightning struck. I was trampled."

_He was employed by a master shearer as a child? _In Archie's day, only family businesses got away with working youngsters like they were adults. Growing up in his parents' traveling show, he'd envied the boys and girls whose sole responsibilities were school and play. If Mr. Gold—Rumplestiltskin—trained in a wool works as a child, then the legend he was older than he looked was true. "At what age were you apprenticed?"

Mr. Gold snorted softly. "Apprenticed? No. Indentured."

Archie raised his eyebrows. Mr. Gold was _much_ older than he looked. The custom of impoverished peasants indenturing their offspring to repay debts placed his childhood two hundred some years before his own. Archie knew that just like he'd never actually met Vincent Chalmers, he'd never actually written a dissertation, but the memory was just as clear. _Triumphs, Tragedies, and Moving On: The Challenges of __Life's Stages_. Mr. Gold must have been through dozens.

As though reading his speculations, the object of them narrowed his eyes warningly. Hastily, Archie cast about for a change of topic, and his eyes lit on Mr. Gold's ever-present cane, nestled in the crook of his arm. "You didn't use to require a walking stick—" he began, then mentally kicked himself for choosing a topic even worse.

"When I was the Dark One?" Mr. Gold gave him a sly smile. Leaning forward, he picked one pizzelle wafer from the platter still balanced on Archie's knees. "That curse was hard on teeth, but it did wonders for bone and sinew. The instant it took hold, I could run and leap as I hadn't since I was five."

Pinocchio shook his head. "But you're a wizard again. You fixed me. Why don't you fix your own leg?"

"Can't." Mr. Gold took a bite of pizzelle. "Magic works differently here. I can heal any ailment I set my mind to except anything that ails me."

Archie tilted his head. "Your library. Now that you have it again, you might find the answer there." _Unless the answer lies with unresolved issues in your subconscious. _

"Perhaps. But my focus now must be finding how to bring back Emma and Mary-Margaret." His dessert finished, he began idly rolling his cane between his hands.

Pinocchio looked confused. "Bring back? From where?"

"Don't you know…" Archie's voice trailed off. _Of course he doesn't. _Reluctant to deliver bad news, he took a moment to settle the platter on the rustic coffee table. Then he folded his hands. "The day the curse broke, the day you ran off into the woods, some sort of monster ripped through town for a few hours before vanishing down a magic portal. Emma and Snow were sucked along with it to whatever part of the Enchanted Forest wasn't brought here."

Archie heard Pinocchio's sharp intake of breath. "A portal? With a monster?"

"Not as dangerous as it sounds," Mr. Gold said quickly. "Wraiths only pursue their targets, and this particular wraith was not aimed at either of them. In flight, it would have created a wind that might have knocked them around a bit. Otherwise, it would have left them unharmed."

Observing Mr. Gold, Archie saw his eyelids flicker. _So the rumors are correct. He was responsible—acting out some inner conflict, no doubt. Now he's trying to make amends._

"But they're gone." Troubled, Pinocchio rubbed his beard. "Lately, have any strangers come to town?"

"To stay?" Geppetto asked. "You and Emma have been the only visitors _ever_ who didn't just pass through. I still can't believe I hired you and didn't recognize my own son."

Pinocchio smiled at his father before sinking his forehead on his palms.

_Emma is like his little sister_, Archie thought. _No wonder he's upset. _"Don't worry. Mr. Gold is spending this next week _scouring_ his entire magic library for knowledge of portals."

"Let's hope I discover something that works with the magic in Storybrooke."

"What's different about the magic in Storybrooke?" Pinocchio asked.

"The Blue Fairy told me—" Archie began.

"Hah. What would _she_ know?" The contempt in Mr. Gold's voice was blatant. This time it was Pinocchio who sent Archie a warning glance. Mr. Gold released his breath slowly, seeming to collect himself. "After all, it's no secret that _I_ released the magic. I poured a vial of true love potion down Storybrooke's wishing well. Strictly speaking, I didn't create what gave the potion its power. Prince Charming, Snow White and Emma did with acts of love, sacrifice, and bravery. But I let the magic loose."

Archie straightened his glasses to keep his inspection of Mr. Gold from being too obvious. That he'd wanted magic in Storybrooke was no surprise—considering how long he'd depended on it. His decision of how to bring it was. As life stages went, his choice signified a major transition—to explore the unknowns of magic based on love, sacrifice and bravery rather than fall back on the familiarity of Dark One magic. _Bravo!_ Archie thought.

The Blue Fairy had told him that only her kind and their special dust—lots and lots of it—could bring the missing back to Storybrooke. But was that strictly true? She'd also insisted that Pinocchio's treatment had to wait for the dwarf miners to dig up more fairy diamonds. Yet here he sat—a real, living, breathing, thinking, caring man again. If there was one form of magic Rheul Gorm was incapable of understanding, it was true love.

Archie pondered the mysterious being who singlehandedly had accomplished his godson's recovery. Mr. Gold aka Rumplestiltskin had certainly led a long and complicated life. Analysis of it might give him useful insights for mastering his newest phase.

Abruptly, Pinocchio stood up—making his chair wobble. "I'm still feeling a bit ragged. If nobody minds, I'm going to go lie down." As he headed for the stairs, he added, "By the way, has anyone seen my backpack?"

* * *

Neal surveyed the couples shimmying across the hotel ballroom. Flo Rida's "Wild Ones" had cleared out most of the over 40's. He'd pull them back with the selection lined up on his second turntable, Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'." The happy bride shot him a grin, and he forced himself to return his professional DJ smile. This was his first wedding gig since _he'd_ stopped believing. Right now he felt like he'd never manage an honest smile again.

_Would've, could've, should've_, he said to himself. The irony was that if he could go back to fix the mistake that had caused his first catastrophic loss, he wouldn't have had the opportunity to make the mistake that had caused his second. Now the two people he'd loved most in his long, ridiculous life were a mere 500 miles further north. Since neither wanted to see him, they might as well have been in another universe.

Neal felt a slight vibration and reached into the hip pocket of his white tuxedo pants. Seeing the name on the screen, _NOLIEZ77_, was like an electric jolt. With no responses in four weeks, he hadn't been sure he'd ever hear from August again.

_OFF GRID. BACK NOW. U NOT HERE. Y?_

_Damn texting_. August's terse message raised too many questions for simply clicking. Neal knew from the old movies he liked to watch to educate himself about his chosen world that people used to chat by phone. His current situation called for either an hour of bro-to-bro or nothing.

_BZY_, he replied.

Neal—or FLY2NVR—was so intent on seeing what answer he'd receive, that he was late queuing his next song and started it after an amateurish half second of silence. By the time he looked back at his phone, he read, _U TXT EMMA?_

Seeing her name, Neal felt his face crumple. He turned away so the few hundred people celebrating true love wouldn't see him gritting his teeth and blinking his eyes. _Emma!_ After a deep breath, he answered, _NO REPLY MOVIN ON._

_NOLIEZ77_'s reply was mercifully quick: _EMMA OFF GRID 2. LNG STRY. CN I CALL?_

Neal could feel his stomach do a somersault. He didn't even bother to snag the wedding coordinator to explain he was taking his break early. Instead, he headed straight across the dance floor for the service entrance, texting as he walked, _2 NOISY ALLEY BTTR 1 SEC._

* * *

When Archie came down the stairs after checking on Pinocchio, Mr. Gold was already taking his leave. Earlier, he'd declined the offer of a ride with, _Don't trouble yourself. I'll call my car service._ Now, dressed in his black Burberry raincoat, gray cashmere scarf, and black kidskin gloves, he looked out-of-place in the woodcarver-slash-handyman's pine-paneled entryway.

As Archie approached, Mr. Gold took Geppetto's hand and shook it. "Thank you for inviting me. Nobody ever does."

"I know what you mean! Since the curse broke, everybody's been too distracted!"

Mr. Gold fidgeted with the brass handle of his cane. "I didn't mean since the curse broke. I meant _ever_."

"Oh, come now," Archie said, joining them. "You're exaggerating. Last spring, I saw you at Mary-Margaret's welcome home party."

Mr. Gold shrugged. "Someone else was going I wanted to observe. I invited myself."

"But… you were her lawyer. You had to invite yourself?" Archie frowned. "That's… that's not right."

Geppetto tsked in agreement.

Mr. Gold tipped his head to one side and then the other as if to assure them the matter was trivial. "People find my presence disturbing. Perhaps a carryover from the Enchanted Forest. You know. The whole _invite-the-imp-and-he'll-eat-your-firstborn _thing."

Geppetto's forehead crinkled indignantly. "No. Don't say that. Surely, your friends…"

"Friends?" Mr. Gold bent his head, and his smooth brown hair fell across his face. "At best, I've known a handful of people I could trust to deal with me fairly." He shot Archie and Geppetto a quick smile. "That was something."

Archie shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The usual words of support he'd have offered a counseling client seemed inadequate. _And a hug is out of the question._

But where Archie was cautious, Geppetto was artless. _The kindest man I've ever known._ He watched his friend give Mr. Gold's shoulders a reassuring squeeze. "We've always been fair with each other. That's because we're both craftsmen. We have the patience. We have the mindfulness. I think, maybe, we're already friends for a long, long time."

Archie saw Mr. Gold relax. Geppetto had that effect on people. "I'll remember this evening. You—"

Outside, a horn honked. _The car service_, Archie thought. Mr. Gold stepped back from his host—establishing space again.

"You take care of your boy."

As Mr. Gold turned to open the door, Archie snatched his coat and umbrella off the rack. "Wait a minute, I want to ask…" With a hasty farewell to Geppetto, he hurried and caught up with the man limping down the front path. "I think maybe… maybe I can help."

"Help?" In the porch light, Archie could see Mr. Gold's amused, skeptical glance.

Archie swallowed. "With the magic."

"Ho! _The magic_. Really, doctor, don't trouble yourself. I've got that covered." He continued walking.

Archie clasped his hands together, anxious not to flub this opportunity. "Back there. Geppetto… When Geppetto said he was your friend, why… why did you change the subject?" His words were stumbling, but they made Mr. Gold stop and lean on his cane. The limo driver honked again, and Archie gestured frantically _One minute!_

In measured tones, Mr. Gold replied, "I didn't change the subject. I meant what I said. I'll remember this evening—as the occasion a resident of Storybrooke called me his friend."

"But Geppetto _meant_ what he said—"

"Tonight, yes. But tomorrow? When Rheul Gorm hears about Pinocchio, she'll scold Geppetto for letting me burn away his strings. She'll say I opened up his son to corruption. At first Geppetto will disagree. Then she'll tell him about the others I've corrupted, and he'll wish he'd never allowed me in his door."

"That's, that's…" Archie blew out his breath. "Geppetto's a wise man. He'll evaluate what she says for himself."

Mr. Gold faced him. "Let me save him the time. Whatever ghastly deed she says I've done, Geppetto should assume she's right."

Archie closed his eyes a moment. _This isn't going well_. "You and the Blue Fairy… you're… at odds."

"_At odds?_" Mr. Gold laughed. "I'd say there're no words strong enough to express how much we despise each other."

The disdain in his voice shocked Archie. "But… but why?" _Who doesn't like fairies? _

"Remember when I came to your office to talk about my son? Well, Rheul Gorm is the one who came between us. Let's leave it at that."

"Why—why doesn't she like _you_?"

Mr. Gold released his breath slowly. "Because I'm _evil_."

Archie froze, thoroughly stumped. Mr. Gold swung out his good leg and resumed hobbling down the path. Not until he was unlatching the picket fence gate did Archie shake his head, then rush to catch up. "You say things like that for effect, don't you?"

Mr. Gold chuckled. "Ah, doctor. You _get_ me."

"But you… you also say them because you believe they're true."

"So insightful!" Mr. Gold waved to the limousine. "And to think your entire psychology education and clinical training were deposited into your brain by a curse."

Archie hung his head. He'd failed. But he wasn't the sort to go away without finishing a thought. "This magic you brought—love-based—it's new to you. Some spells come easily. Others are… blocked. _That's_ what I can help you with."

Mr. Gold sighed. "As I said before, doctor, don't trouble yourself."

* * *

Crouching by his bed, Neal gave his canvas duffel bag a tug, dislodged it from under the sagging mattress, and swung it atop the crumpled sheets. He dumped out classic rock T's, cargo shorts, sandals and sundry accoutrements of summer. Grabbing clean shirts from his clothes rack and scooping dirty ones off his moth eaten easy chair, he began packing for November in Maine. He stuffed in the snarl of dirty jeans from his floor. So long as he had fresh underwear, he could worry about washing the rest once he got to Storybrooke.

Neal checked his cell phone again. If he hurried, he'd catch the Greyhound at the Port Authority Bus Terminal, make connections in Bangor, and be in Storybrooke by midmorning when the mysterious Mr. Gold opened his shop. Why an old world wizard with the powers August had described would bother with pawned trinkets was a puzzle. But his brother-of-a-different-origin had raved how Mr. Gold had freed him from strings and splinters once and for all that very night. _Just don't cross him_, August had warned. Well, Neal knew how to be endearing. When the magic man found the portal to reach Emma, he'd volunteer to fetch her himself.

That the nimble-fingered charmer who'd jumped into his joy ride by sheer chance should now be wandering around his fairytale birthplace made Neal's head spin. Forget texting and e-mail and phone tag and all the other mechanical rituals for communicating love. In the Enchanted Forest, they'd talk face-to-face of destiny, true love, and happily ever after.

Then he'd bring Emma back to his chosen world where they could enjoy a good pastrami sandwich, and she could tell him the _big secret_ August had hinted she'd kept from him.

Neal spied the feathered, beaded dreamcatcher he and Emma had rescued from their cheap Portland motel room. A sentimental keepsake, he knew, but the only one he truly cherished. Carefully, he packed it between the folds of his best blue shirt.

Entering his bathroom, swinging his duffle bag, Neal opened the medicine cabinet and picked through his toiletries. _I'm making good time_. Then he spied his black double-breasted suit and waistcoat hanging on the back of the door and stopped cold.

A decade earlier Rheul Gorm had shown him a vision of Papa, once more human, free of the Dark One curse—indisputably his caring, dear, sweet self again. _But he does not remember you. Only by forsaking Emma and allowing her to fulfill her destiny will Rumplestiltskin and everyone else of the Enchanted Forest be freed from the curse of forgetfulness. _Sorrowfully, Neal had given in. Watching Papa spinning at his wheel, one thing had convinced Neal that Rheul Gorm's tale of Storybrooke, Maine was true: Papa was wearing a three-piece suit.

Then a month ago—right after August's pigeon post announcement that the curse was broken—Rheul Gorm had dashed Neal's hopes of a reunion. _I'm afraid your Papa is still very angry_.

Neal sighed. _Who could blame him_? Their last frantic moments together rattled in his mind: Papa quaking with fear while he callously nagged and taunted him, then left him behind.

_If only I could tell Papa how much I've sacrificed trying to fix it, I know he'd be the bigger man and forgive me._

On the spur of the moment, Neal grabbed the suit. Maybe the remarkable Mr. Gold would know where in Storybrooke Papa was. In this day and age, there couldn't be that many men who knew how to spin.

_If I hang back and watch to see if I'm welcome—look for a sign that all is forgiven—it might help if I'm wearing a suit. _

* * *

Smee fumbled his key in the outside lock of his basement apartment. He swayed a little, then bent to squint at the knob. Jiggling, he finally jabbed the key in and turned. Leaning forward, he swept his door open, nearly falling. Then he staggered inside.

Cold, muddy, and deliciously drunk on Cisco 17.5 alcohol by volume, Smee felt the satisfaction of a job well done. This was the only time in his life he'd ever acquired a hard-to-find-object and discarded it. _Good riddance! _

The first burn after he'd chatted up the Dark One had been bad enough. The zap he got after his dumpster attempt had been twice as strong. Well, nobody and nothing ever got a third go at _him. _He'd buried that bloody tin box so far off in the forest and so deep in the mud that nobody would ever stumble across it again.

Smee slammed the door shut, locked it and bolted it. _There_. He peeled off his damp navy peacoat and let it drop. _Goddamn Maine Novembers. _Oh, to be basking in the sun of Neverland again.

Whistling a sea chanty, he struck out across his bachelor flat, aiming for the bathroom and his one luxury—a claw footed tub.

Then he saw it, sitting right smack dab in the middle of his coffee table—the rusty biscuit tin. When the lid creaked open, revealing the white hot light inside, Smee freaked. Shrieking, he groped for the deadbolt. Already, his trembling fingers were so sweaty they slipped. As he scrabbled to escape, the evil ray struck, sending a shock through his body that jittered his teeth.

When he came to, Smee was akimbo on his side—dried blood on his cheek from smacking the floor and a searing pain in the small of his back from where the box had scorched him. Shakily, he heaved himself into a squat and peered across the room. In a moment, the box would emanate the sweet, cajoling voice of his dear departed Mum and ask him to do things his Mum would never have dreamt. This time he'd be a good little man and obey the dirty rotten cheating tin. What other choice did he have?

Smee whimpered. For the first time in his long, clever, adventurous life he'd managed to acquire a hard-to-get-rid-of-object.

* * *

Gnawing off another juicy bite of barbecued rib, Emma said, "This is excellent." _But I don't want the recipe. _She thought it better not to ask what beast the boy who'd stayed behind had killed and roasted for the Lost Boys' midnight supper. He went by the odd name of Slightly and was slightly taller, slightly ganglier, and a lot more conceited than his friends.

"Thanks. I'm the very best cook here. I remember how Mummy did it."

At Slightly's boast, three boys piled on top of him and started punching, tickling, and shouting, "Liar, liar, pants on fire!"

Mulan looked at them askance, then turned her attention to the Lost Boys' leader. "Tootles, you told us you had comrades disappear—one by one—before you switched camps. But just because it hasn't happened here, doesn't mean this camp won't be found. Shouldn't someone be patrolling the perimeter? It's lack of discipline that's making you victims."

The green light by Tootle's ear jingled.

"Tink says not to listen to grownups."

"Even if we make sense?" Mary-Margaret asked.

"You picked a defensible location," Mulan went on, "and placing lookout posts in the trees is a good idea. But what help are they if nobody's manning them?"

Freckle-face—otherwise known as First Twin—looked sad. "I got lonely up there—"

"—all by myself," Second Twin finished, looking even sadder.

_Poor kids. They should be manning a play fort, not a real one. _"I'm finished," Emma said, throwing the bone into the fire. "Let me keep watch for awhile."

"No! Stay!"

Before she had time to react, three boys were clinging to her.

"Are you a Mummy?" asked the skinny kid, Freebird.

"Do you have a boy?" asked the chubby kid, Rock.

"What's your name?" asked the redhead, Nibs.

Emma hugged all three. "Yes I'm a Mom, my son is Henry, and I'm Emma."

The fairy-cum-jingle-bell tinkled.

Tootles frowned. "Emma Swan?"

Her stomach lurched. Hearing her full name from the lips of a strange little boy out in the middle of the Fire Swamp at night in the land of fairytales a whole dimension away from the world she called home was, well, _eerie_. "That's… me. How could she possibly know?"

Tinkerbelle dinged once.

"Good guess," Tootles translated.

* * *

**Hello, again:** If you read this far, then you have some thoughts on what worked and what _didn't_ work. Please leave a note!

**Author's Note**: The problem with writing a fan fiction set in the middle of a canon of work still being created is that canon will pass you by!

_**Where Waylaid anticipated canon**_ (along with most other fans): Rumplestiltskin's son Baelfire _is_ Neal Cassidy, Emma's son Henry's daddy.

_**Where it didn't anticipate canon**_:  
(A) Unexpectedly the wonderful "Manhattan" 2x14 episode revealed the reason for non-Dark One Rumple/Mr. Gold's limp. I'm gobsmacked at how genius it was and at the implied reason why Mr. Gold doesn't fix it. But, sigh, WL can't change to canon now because the reason cited here for why Mr. Gold doesn't fix it is important to WL's plot.  
(B) No, Baelfire didn't consider that maybe jumping down Rheul Gorm's whirling vortex was a lot to expect of his papa on the spur of the moment, but as the reunion scene (and what Baelfire went through because of the separation) was presented in 2x14, one certainly can't fault Bae for placing the entire blame on Rumple and rejecting (for one episode at least) his papa.  
(C) No, the reason Baelfire didn't come to Storybrooke when August sent him the postcard stating "Broken" was not because he thought neither Emma nor his father would want to see him; actually, he didn't want to see them. That he didn't truly apologize for what he did to Emma surprises me, though. _She_ deserves closure.


	5. What's Holding You Back?

_**Chapter 5**_

**What's Holding You Back?**

**Henry, Regina's Father**: There was a man. Well, not quite a man. (_We Are Both_).

Emma found the Lost Boys' tree lookout post surprisingly snug—a hammock of vines slung just under the topmost leaves. The fact that her three supper companions had had to fly her up to it meant she was stuck here until someone saw fit to relieve her.

_That's okay_. Mulling over her odd conversation with the tinkling, twinkling green light gave her a lot to think about.

After long deliberation, she'd concluded, _Tinkerbelle knew my full name because I'm the quote unquote savior._ Emma had to accept that after 28 years of indifference, the universe—or _universes_—considered her just plain awesome. She smiled to herself. _That's right. Saviors are awesome_.

And the miniscule fairy had been especially inquisitive about Henry: how old he was, what color his hair was, whether he liked to dance with his shadow. Well, the son of a savior was bound to be fascinating, too.

That Tinkerbelle had been interested in Henry's father had been another matter. Grudgingly, Emma had disclosed they'd met in a hotwired Volkswagen bug, which she'd explained to the Lost Boys as a land dinghy painted yellow. Describing Neal as a bastard had led to confusion, but calling him a Rodent of Unusual Size had finally gotten her point across.

Emma began another slow, purposeful scan of their environs. She'd never kept watch in a swamp before, but with her experience chasing bail bond jumpers, she was adept at scrutinizing crowds for the one person who looked out of place. The moon was bright enough that she could make out ROUS scurrying around just outside their camp. A bunch of would-be kidnappers negotiating pits of lightning sand and fire spouts would be easy to spot.

Suddenly, Tootles screamed, "Tink! Where are you?! Tink!"

"Oh, really?" Emma muttered to herself. The Lost Boys' replacement for the legendary Peter Pan couldn't have betrayed the location of their camp more clearly if he'd tried. Thank goodness there _weren't_ any enemies within sight let alone hollering distance.

After a few minutes of muffled, sleepy responses, Tootles' cries woke up his companions. Soon all of them were calling out to the missing fairy. In another minute, she saw the redheaded Lost Boy zooming up to her post.

As Nibs rose face-to-face with her, she was ready to scold him for the undisciplined shouting, but his look of distress stopped her. "Tink's disappeared. She's gone." As he blurted out his words, he started to sink.

Emma grabbed the frightened boy by the arm and yanked him onto the hammock. "Get a hold of yourself. You can't fly in this state."

Nibs nodded, gulped, and slapped his cheeks.

"Are you sure she's missing? She's so tiny, she's easy to miss. Maybe she's just sleeping through the commotion."

Nibs shook his head. "No. Tink sleeps in a mitten by Tootles' head. When Tootles is on duty, she sleeps by me."

"But I've been keeping lookout from this tree since I said goodnight to her. Nobody's breached the camp. I swear."

"Hook did." Nibs pinched his nose to squelch a sob. "I don't know how, but he must've. First Poolie, then Guffie, then—" He reeled off so many names, Emma couldn't keep track. He finished with "—and now Tink."

"But where would he take her? What would he want with her?"

Nibs raised his shoulders in a helplessly ignorant shrug.

Emma had a hard time imagining the Captain Hook she'd met being patient enough to kidnap Lost Boys one-by-one—let alone a zigzagging fairy. But the alternative was worse—that lightning sand, flame spouts, or ROUS were to blame.

Emma slung her arm around the skinny boy's shoulders. "Where I come from, one hour isn't long enough to consider someone missing. My guess is that when you least expect it, Tinkerbelle will turn up."

* * *

At six a.m., a half hour before sunrise, Neal stood outside the Greyhound Bus Terminal in Bangor, Maine, waiting for his eight a.m. connection. Since he'd given up smoking, he had nothing to do but jam his hands into his pockets, stamp his feet, and wish his vintage felt coat had been designed for New England rather than New York. He had no change to buy a second cup of vending machine coffee. He hoped a place that took credits cards opened before he had to hop on the bus for Storybrooke.

Not that there _was_ a bus for Storybrooke strictly speaking. The ticket taker had insisted no such place existed. The third driver-on-break he'd asked vaguely remembered a suggestion of civilization in the blank spot Neal indicated on his map.

_I don't recall the town's name_, the driver had said, _but I remember the diner. They always have a really hot dark-haired waitress—for as long as I can remember, and I've been driving the same route nearly thirty years. How such an out-of-the-way place keeps hiring lookers and why these lookers all look alike is beyond me. Oh, yeah. They make a really good burger._

If Neal wanted to get off before the end of the line, all he had to do was ask the driver and have his luggage handy. For now, it was safe in a locker. When he retrieved it, he'd haul it on the bus.

Pulling out his cell phone to check the time, he saw a green light just on the edge of his vision. _Can't be_. When he whipped his head around to look, it was gone. He closed his eyes and rubbed them hard with his knuckles. He couldn't be sleepy—not if he wanted to keep a sharp lookout for Storybrooke.

Again he caught the light—this time high up. Faintly, he heard a jingle.

_Of all the times and all the places for Tink to show up_!

Neal bent his head as if studying his cell phone. If he waited for it…. Yes. This time a brighter light flashed on his other side. He bent his head way down as if only by seeing his coat pocket could he slip his phone into it. Casually, he raised his free hand as if to scratch his ear.

Very close, he heard a tinkle. As fast as a cat, he cupped his hand around her—making sure to leave a sufficient hollow so as not to wrinkle her lacy fairy wings. "Gotcha! You little Christmas bell. How're the boys?"

Neal uncurled his fingers to smile at the butterfly-sized fairy lounging on his palm. As usual, she wore a tiny, green, strapless shift and ballet slippers that showed off her tiny shapely legs and tiny shapely breasts. When she'd first whisked him from the world-without-magic to Neverland, he'd developed quite a crush on the little lady. Though that had passed, he still found her awfully cute.

Ever since—for over two centuries of ever since—they'd been comrades in arms. They'd shared many battles before the hiatus when he'd mistakenly believed Hook's absence would be permanent. After he'd returned to the world-without-magic to seek a different sort of adventure, Tink would drop by just for fun. A year ago, when Tink had anxiously reported Hook's return, Neal had discovered it was too late to rejoin the fight. He'd grown up. He'd met and lost the love-of-his-life. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't muster a thought happy enough to make him fly.

But he could still relay advice. "The Fire Swamp was a good idea? Hook hasn't found it?"

"No," she tinkled, "but someone else has. Guess!" She clasped her hands against her rosebud mouth as if to keep the secret from popping out. Then she threw her arms wide as if embracing the sky. "Oh, all right. It's Emma Swan."

Disconcerted, Neal sank back against the bus station's front glass window. "Emma—she's in the Lost Boys camp?" _Wow_. He'd just learned earlier this evening that she was in the Enchanted Forest. That his old crew had located her and were keeping her safe was—_Wow_.

"Yes! And she's waiting for you! She loves you! She _true love_ loves you!" As she jingled out her exclamations, Tinkerbelle jumped to her feet, flourished her wand, and shook twinkling fairy dust into Neal's face.

"Hey, cut that out. We've tried this, and—" But just as Neal was about to finish his admonition for Tink to conserve her precious magic, he felt the pressure leave the soles of his feet. Only an inch off the ground, but for the first time in ages he was floating. _Emma loves me._

"She understands why I left?"

"Yes, yes, yes! She understands! The curse. Her destiny. True love. She understands it all!" Tinkerbelle fluttered around Neal's head, sprinkling sparkles everywhere. "And there's more! There's more!"

When Neal looked down, he saw he'd risen a foot. "Wait!" Quickly, he scouted their location. The strip mall to the left provided no cover. The park across the street was a postage stamp and residents of the neighboring apartment building might be dressing for work. He pointed diagonally across the nearest intersection. "There. The church."

Again Neal cupped his hand around Tink so she couldn't wreak anymore wonderment until they were safely out of sight. Pedaling through the air, he moved fast. _Some skills you never forget_. He caught a bleary-eyed truck driver doing a double take as he passed, but otherwise the streets were blessedly deserted. Up the steps to the churchyard and around the bushes, Neal opened his hands.

"_What_ more?"

Tinkerbelle hugged herself, bobbling with excitement. Her glitter enveloped Neal in a warm glow. "You and Emma have a boy! Henry! He's smart! He's brave! He can dance with his shadow!"

Neal's rush of joy was like a shot of helium. "Tink! I have a son!" When he looked down, he saw the church's white steeple and gray slate roof receding beneath him. His spirits rose even higher. _I'm airborne!_ No need for a layover in Storybrooke to look up Mr. Gold. He was taking a direct flight to Emma. And when they returned and introduced Henry to Papa, a tear-soaked reunion was assured.

Fathers always forgave sons who gave them grandchildren.

* * *

The thought of his library waiting to be unpacked urged Mr. Gold out of bed, out of his house, down the several blocks to his shop, and into his office a full two hours before his usual time. Perched on his office chair, he was thankful his levitating skills were back and didn't require a complicated potion to wield. Within an hour, he'd relegated 29 years of unsellable, unredeemed items to the nether reaches of his attic and filled the shelves of his office with about half the collection that had graced the walls of his tower study at his Enchanted Forest estate.

His obligation to fulfill his deal with Prince Charming was uppermost on Mr. Gold's mind. A matter of pride, really. Not that he'd be unhappy to see the sheriff's badge on the inestimable Emma Swan rather than the wet-behind-the-ears prince. Snow White wasn't too unbearable, either—at least in her Mary-Margaret version. And if he accomplished the reunion, Belle might see his need for magical powers was not entirely ignoble.

He stacked the remaining boxes to the side, confident he'd correctly identified and culled the dozen volumes on inter-universe interstices. They were the most thumbed, smudged, dog-eared, and creased of the lot. In years past, endless reading and rereading had convinced him that direct travel between the Enchanted Forest and Bae's world-without-magic was impossible without extinct flora such as the giants' beans. This despite the fact that Neverland, Wonderland, Oz, Narnia, and a number of even stranger realms were compatible enough for links and transports. That had left the catastrophically dark magic of the universe-ripping curse that had brought him to where he was now.

Crooking his finger, Mr. Gold summoned the first book, bound in scratched-up chimera hide and embossed with tarnished elf silver. Now that Storybrooke flowed with magic of its own, establishing a stable connection with the Enchanted Forest was surely doable. He opened to page one, ready to pore through the pages again with an open mind.

By midmorning, Mr. Gold had determined that the odds were slim of locating a pre-existing portal like Alice's long-lost rabbit hole or a magic transport like the Pevensie family wardrobe. Creating a vortex, on the other hand, depended on wizardry, not chance. And since that was the kind of portal that had dragged the lost ladies to the Enchanted Forest in the first place, he knew it could work. Rheul Gorm had laid claim to repairing Jefferson's portal-creating hat once sufficient fairy dust had been mined. Well, he'd show her who had the greater power.

By midday, Mr. Gold was staring dejectedly at a cauldron of still, calm water. If he couldn't create a vortex in the most versatile of all the elements, then what hope did he have of creating a whirlpool mighty enough to drill through time and space? He recalled what Dr. Hopper had said about his grasp of love-based magic: _Some spells come easily. Others are blocked._

Mr. Gold pressed his forehead against his fingertips. That Emma had found her family and been ripped from it all in the same day was a tragedy. _My fault. Nobody's fault but mine_. With his hasty, thoughtless attempt at retribution, he'd accrued yet more damages against his name. Without magic, how could he make reparation? Owing someone—especially someone as surprisingly dear as Emma Swan—was the worst feeling in all the universes. Groaning, he shook his head. _I'm nothing but a useless, contemptible debtor. Lame. Friendless. Weak._

Dr. Hopper's words from the night before whispered in his mind. _I think, maybe, I can help_.

Mr. Gold remembered what a relief it had been to talk with the counselor when Pinocchio had tricked him into believing he'd found his boy. Blindly, he fumbled in the inner pocket of his suit coat for his phone.

* * *

As Neal sailed under the noon sun, the sight of Neverland brought a nostalgic lump to his throat. Half lush jungle, half pine forest, ringed with white sand, and studded with snow-capped mountains—the island had everything. If he squinted really hard, he could see flecks of foam in the azure lagoon that just might be his friends the mermaids playing with the dolphins. And Tiger Lily? How was she doing?

He heard a jingle and lifted his head. Tinkerbelle was flashing her green light on and off, alerting him that the sky portal was just ahead. He saluted in reply.

When he'd learned of the Storybrooke curse from August, he'd realized that the Enchanted Forest ripping apart must have been the cause of the rift he was about to enter. If only he'd known that when Tink had first discovered it—about a year into Hook's absence—he wouldn't have spent so much of the next dozen years doing flyovers, hunting for clues as to why the castles lay in ruins, the towns sat empty, and the woods teemed with ogres. He wouldn't have spent so much time ridden with guilt, believing he'd abandoned his father to desolation. More than once Tink had had to haul him back to Neverland because he'd been too sad to fly on his own.

But at least the time he'd spent scouting the Fire Swamp had proven useful.

Abruptly, Tink's light disappeared. She'd entered the portal. Neal took one last glance at Neverland before following. Maybe Emma would enjoy a quick tour on their way back to earth.

* * *

Archie stood just inside the door, palms pressed together, while Mr. Gold limped across his office. "When you came here before, I only knew your Storybrooke identity," he said. "Today feel free to discuss anything—anything at all. The only way this works is if you _talk_. What you say doesn't leave this room. Just tell me what… what I should call you."

Archie watched Mr. Gold back up against the couch and give it the quick glance of the handicapped man who wants to make sure if his balance gives way, he won't crash. Gripping his cane, his client lowered himself carefully. Not until he was safely sitting did he reply, "I prefer Mr. Gold. There's only one person in Storybrooke who can say _Rumplestiltskin _without sounding like she's spitting out the name of the devil."

"Okay." _After all, I prefer Archie or Dr. Hopper._ Quickly, he took his seat. "Let's dig right in. I think there's a lot to cover. On the phone you said you wanted to explore ways to make the Storybrooke magic easier for you to tap. I think maybe… maybe you have some doubts about yourself—"

"Whether I'm worthy of wielding magic based on love, sacrifice, and bravery?" Mr. Gold's tone was self-mocking, but Archie knew to expect that at the beginning of a session.

"_Worthy_ is an interesting concept. And quite traditional. Just because you're not seeking tuition in this magic from a master who has to deem _you_ worthy, doesn't mean you aren't using some form of measurement on yourself."

Mr. Gold chuckled. "Oh, my, doctor. You found the root of the matter immediately. I'm unquestionably unworthy."

"No. That's not what I meant. You gave that answer too… too easily. Think a moment. Surely you can give me one _positive_."

"About myself? Well, I've never been a bully." Mr. Gold began tapping his good foot. "Oh, I've killed many—in self-defense, for retaliation, to best a rival, from paranoia, to get something I wanted, as a means to an end. But never for sport just because I could."

Archie kept his expression neutral as Mr. Gold ticked off his list. _You already knew he's killed people. Move along._ "Did… did you ever kill when you _weren't_ under the Dark One curse?"

"Yes, once. To become the Dark One, I had to kill the previous Dark One."

"And only… only the once?"

Mr. Gold's gaze was penetrating. "What are you asking me, doctor? Whether I've killed anyone _since_—in Storybrooke?"

Archie steeled himself not to back down from Mr. Gold's stare. "As a counselor, I'm obligated to report any indication you plan to harm yourself or another person in the future. I'm obligated to keep _confidential_ any act of harm you may have done in the past."

Mr. Gold gave him a sardonic grin. "Let me set your mind at ease. In Storybrooke I've done things that wouldn't stand up to the cold, hard scrutiny of the law, but I haven't done a single thing that has caused _permanent_ harm."

_Caveat noted_, Archie said to himself. "So the Dark One curse. You took it on… voluntarily?"

Mr. Gold shrugged as if the choice had been inconsequential. "I made a deal I didn't understand."

"You must have had a... a very good reason."

"Oh, I did, yes. To save my son from being slaughtered in the Ogre Wars." He glanced at Archie, then closed his eyes. "You're calculating my age. Don't deny it. I know I gave you the century when I said I'd been indentured. Let me make it easy. I was born about 300 years ago. I became the Dark One when I was 50. The Ogre War in question is the second-to-last of countless."

Archie nodded. "The Frontlands Massacres. Yes. And you accomplished your goal—saving your son? From the battlefield?"

"No. On his fourteenth birthday, I slew the five men who'd come to conscript him. I saved him from ever going."

_Five men_. "That… that must have been a… a relief. And you kept other children from being conscripted… at least, for awhile."

"Not awhile. Forever. After I stopped the press gang, I went to the battlefield. I stopped the war."

Archie heard pride in Mr. Gold's voice—and a touch of bitterness as well. "That's… that's quite an accomplishment. How did you—"

"With the powers I gained from the curse. When I took it on, not only could I run and leap again, I could appear and disappear in a puff of smoke, I could snatch weapons straight to my hand, I could fight like lightning—all on the first day. And when I'd hopped, skipped, and jumped to the battlefield, I discovered something else: I could understand what the ogres were saying."

"You could understand—I… I didn't even know they had a language."

"Ogres are more humanlike than you think. They're hunter-gatherers, but they talk, congregate, scheme…" Mr. Gold blew out his breath. "Let me tell you about the honorable Duke of the Frontlands. Every spring he'd invite rulers of the neighboring realms to observe what ogres could do. He'd muster unarmed peasants on the battlefield. The ogre chief would do the same with his people. The ogres would slaughter the humans; then the Duke's archers would slaughter the ogres. With corpses to demonstrate the ogres' brutality, the Duke extorted hefty tributes from all the rulers foolish enough to believe he was protecting their realms from suffering the same. But it wasn't his archers that sent the ogres home. The Duke's men would drive the cattle of the slain peasants into the forest where the ogres lived. That would satisfy the ogre chief until the next spring."

"You make it sound like… like a business transaction."

"A business transaction? Hah. It was a swindle. There's a difference, doctor."

"And you stopped it?"

"Yes. I surveyed the battlefield—the half-starved ogres bellowing, the peasant children trembling. And at the end of the ogre line I saw _me_—the outsider, the ogre who looked out of place. He was snarling with the rest, but with one ear cocked toward the Frontlands archers and the other toward the forest as if gauging when to run. On the ridge above him I saw the ogre lord—a self-satisfied fellow twice as fat as those he led. I felled him with a bolt of lightning straight from my hand through his soft blind eye. Then I sprang to the side of the sensible, cowardly ogre and said, 'I've killed your chief. Tell me who else needs to die before these poor dumb bastards acclaim you as their new chief and let you make a deal.'"

"A deal? You mean the truce… the ogre truce. That was… you? But I thought…"

"For a quarter of a millennium that was me—though many royals claimed the credit. When two parties have something the other wants, a deal can always be struck. The wars began when human civilization encroached so far into ogre hunting grounds that game was scarce. In exchange for the land the humans had taken, the new ogre chief and all the chiefs after him accepted a thousand livestock a year to feed their people. I made similar deals with all the ogre tribes. Humans were granted peace."

"That's all it took—a fair deal?"

"Oh, I had to kill the Duke of the Frontlands—and three or four of his lords. They couldn't understand why joining their confidence game held no value for me. After that, the next in line was quite happy to see matters my way."

"The only value to you was your son."

"My son and all the other sons and daughters of the Frontlands. I gathered them from across the battlefield and I led them home."

"That was—"

"The last truly good thing I ever did."

"But you kept the truce in place."

"Well, yes. And as a fair deal, not a swindle. Except for…" Mr. Gold's voice trailed off. He shifted in his seat. "As go-between, I exacted a price, of course. Without the blood of slaughtered children to promote my services, I couldn't inflate my fee like the Duke of the Frontlands. I had to be reasonable. Each year when the crocuses pushed up through the snow, I'd make the rounds of the realms at peril of ogre attack and collect their allotments of livestock. For my troubles, I'd choose a single treasured object from each ruler's court. Over the decades, the treasures added up." He shrugged.

"But that was… was an _amazingly_ good thing. You did that truly worthy, positive thing with powers you gained from the curse. And think what you _didn't_ do. You never made yourself ruler. You never enslaved anyone."

"Well—"

Archie would not be interrupted. "You never started a war."

"Spare me the clumsy attempt at bolstering my self-esteem, doctor. I can't be praised for not doing things that just aren't _my way_." Mr. Gold shook his head. "A curse is a powerful thing, but it's the individual who determines how it manifests. Before I became the Dark One I was a spinner known for dealing quality spools of thread at reasonable prices. Under the curse I became the sinister dealmaker who could fulfill one's wildest fantasies but at the risk of losing one's soul."

_Sinister dealmaker. Yes, I remember. _Archie moistened his lips. "That's… _that's_ what you didn't understand about the deal you made for the curse. That the powers you'd gain would make you capable… capable of _doing things_… Things that made you—" he swallowed "that made you _feel_ you'd lost _your _soul."

"I never felt I'd _lost_ my soul. Becoming the Dark One made my soul _irrelevant_."

"Oh. That's… that's…" Archie stopped. He didn't know what that was.

"You know, doctor, it's shocking how few people understood what magic was like in the Enchanted Forest. It was as elemental as water. It saturated everything. As the Dark One I dissolved in it. With magic my body could do anything—run, dance, fly. No weapon could harm me. I couldn't die. Yet I had a thousand ways to punish anyone who dared to _differ_ with me. Can you imagine how inferior and inconsequential that made everyone else seem?"

"That feeling would be a… a natural result of… that set of circumstances."

"Circumstances? The absolute certainty of my superiority was intoxicating. Half the time I was giddy with it. I found everything and everyone simply hilarious. The main reason I continued making deals with humans for things I could easily conjure was that it _amused_ me. The more they feared, hated, and scorned me—all the while still _needing_ me—the more they made me laugh."

"You saw yourself as the outsider—the one who was out of place."

"Yes."

"Just as… just as you did before. That's another way you… you as an individual… determined how the curse manifested. It seems to take a person's tendencies and make them… _extreme_."

"Perhaps. But why _that_ tendency?" Mr. Gold frowned, lost in thought. "I know you have no reason to believe me, except that I swear it's true: before the curse I was different. I was gentle, I was kind. Why didn't the curse take _those_ tendencies and amplify _them_?"

"Your love for your son—you were able to manifest_ that_ in a highly positive way while under the curse. Throughout everything, that love remained relevant to you."

"And when I lost him? Oh, doctor. You can't possibly know. The word _extreme_ can't begin to describe… Ah, some of the things I did in my quest to find him..." Mr. Gold sighed, closing his eyes again.

As Archie studied his client, one thing puzzled him. It was more a practical, logistical matter than one of the heart. "Your son… you're expecting to reunite with him _here._ If not in Storybrooke, then somewhere else in this world. What makes you so certain?"

"Certain?" Mr. Gold grimaced, clearly reluctant to speak. "Let's just say I had _access_ to the curse that brought us here. A small portion—a mere corner, really. I added a drop of true love magic in the name of Emma—so she would be the savior. And I added another in the name of Bae—so he would be here and I would find him."

_I had access._ In Mr. Gold's careful words, Archie could sense a lot more than his client was letting on. Clearly, a fruitful area to explore. He remembered a curious thing he'd heard Mr. Gold say to Charming in his shop the day before_: I spent nearly three hundred years getting from the Enchanted Forest to here._ Now Archie knew the _three hundred_ wasn't a figurative number. Had Mr. Gold wanted to come? "That curse—the one that created Storybrooke. For you it was more of a blessing. It removed the Dark One curse."

"Not quite. It removed_ me_—to a place without magic."

"Yes. And without magic, you've had the chance to—"

Mr. Gold locked eyes with Archie. "Become the man I was before? Hardly. I'm not exactly known in town for being gentle or kind. People fear me, hate me, scorn me—just like they did in the Enchanted Forest. "

Mr. Gold's gaze was searching. _I have to speak carefully if I'm going to help him find any answers_, Archie thought."But people are no longer _inconsequential_ to you. You see their value again and… you like that. Your soul no longer feels irrelevant."

"Maybe. But could I ever be the man Bae used to love?" Mr. Gold fidgeted with his cane. "I've made enemies over the years—most of them deserved. For me, weakness would be deadly. I don't value others so highly that I won't defend myself. I'm not above preemptive action if I'm threatened. And revenge feels to me like the virtue of equity."

"Perhaps you haven't been a _saint_…but… it _means_ something to you that you haven't caused anyone, uh, _permanent_ harm."

Mr. Gold returned a faint smile.

"And now, after so many years without it, you've made Storybrooke a place _with_ magic—but of a _different_ sort."

"To help me find Bae."

"And the magic you've brought is quite powerful."

"Yes. According to my long years of study, true love is the most powerful magic that has been identified in the known universes."

"But you're unfamiliar with it. You don't know its limits. For some spells that may be what's holding you back—the anxiety that this new magic may have _no_ limits. Without limits, everything could seem inferior and inconsequential again."

Mr. Gold exhaled slowly. "Even love can be perverted." He lowered his head. "I can't choose Regina's path. If I renounce magic completely, I'm afraid I'll never find Bae."

"I think… I think everyone's path is different. As Pinocchio's godfather, I'd be the least likely to ask you to _renounce_ magic. Instead, perhaps you can set your own limits. You're doing it already in your unconscious when you experience a block. But that's the least effective approach. If you make the process conscious, you can base your limits on how you'll use the magic rather than what magic will be available to you."

"But why would my unconscious block me from magic involving portals?"

"Think about it. Where do you want to open a portal to? You're wary of the magic in Storybrooke because you're not sure how you'll handle it. Think of how your unconscious must be rebelling at the possibility of linking to the Enchanted Forest. You _know_ what its magic would do to you. I think every fiber of your being wants to avoid the Enchanted Forest at all costs—never have anything to do with it ever again."

"But I _don't_ have any intention of going through a portal to the Enchanted Forest—just of calling Emma and Mary-Margaret back to this side of it."

"Make a deal with your unconscious that under no circumstances will you ever go back to the Enchanted Forest where the Dark One can manifest in you again. Resolve that inner conflict and maybe the magic will begin to flow."

* * *

As Mr. Gold hobbled down the sidewalk from Dr. Hopper's office toward his shop, their long conversation replayed in his mind, blocking out the usual _harrumphs_ and glares of passing Storybrooke citizens. But when he heard a loud report—almost like a gunshot—he looked up. He scanned the street for the source of the sound. Seeing the ancient white Impala of the youngest son of a fish monger chugging by, he said to himself, _Car backfire_.

Nearing his shop, Mr. Gold reached for his keys. With a quick glance down, he noticed an odd frayed hole in his breast pocket and stopped to inspect it. _Was this there the whole time I was talking to Hopper? Embarrassing._

When Mr. Gold took a side trip home to change, he discovered something even stranger—identical round holes in the front and back of each layer of clothing. It was as if someone had sneaked into his house and skewered the complete outfit he'd laid out for himself the night before. The thought was disconcerting.

Well, this would be a good test of Dr. Hopper's proposed strategy—setting conscious limits on his use of magic in order to unblock some of its forms that had eluded him lately. If he made a deal with his unconscious that the barrier spell he'd conjure around his house would not, under any circumstances, turn intruders into marble statues like the spell that had secured his Enchanted Forest estate, perhaps he could finally provide reasonable protection for his home and shop.

* * *

At first light, the Lost Boys and their prisoners-turned-allies started an earnest hunt for the missing fairy. Surreptitiously, Emma had outlined the basics of a grid search to the three women and each had agreed to shepherd four of the boys. They hadn't announced this arrangement formally to avoid an anti-grownup backlash.

Now that it was dusk, Emma's greatest fear had come true. One of her charges was in big trouble. If not for the lucky chance that Slightly had picked up a long stick to whack Freebird for taunting _So's your mum_, he'd have been long gone down the lightning sand pit rather than just up to his armpits. As it was, Freebird's grip on the other end of the stick was the only thing saving Slightly from a quick burial.

Six snarling ROUS and the wriggly twins she was clutching under her arms prevented Emma from lending a hand. On the off chance that their Great Dane build meant the rats-on-ultra-steroids were doglike, Emma instructed the twins through gritted teeth, "Don't run. Don't show them your backs. Don't look them in the eyes."

Emma heard a pop, followed by a blow torch blast from a fire spout. Startled, Freebird lost his grip. As he scrambled forward, Emma's stomach dropped. Just as the stick was sliding off the edge of solid ground, he caught it—barely.

Of all the ironic things, Emma heard Tootles' distant shout, "Tink! It's Tink! She's here!"

_Great_. In trying to find her, one of her comrades was about to be lost. _Maybe if I get the ROUS to chase me, then the twins can help Freebird pull Slightly out._

Then she heard, "And she's got Peter! Peter! Peter!"

_Peter Pan?_

Images of the dashing, plucky, talented, pint-sized hero flooded Emma's mind. Without thinking, she shouted: "Peter! Help! Slightly's slipping down a sinkhole!"

She craned her neck in the direction of Tootles' cries. Soon, a figure zoomed over the top of the trees.

It wasn't the Peter Pan of the stories.

It wasn't the intrepid lad dressed in green.

It was that goddamn, double-crossing, no-good, son-of-a-bitch Neal Cassidy.

* * *

**Author:** I know I don't have Mr. Gold's punch, but if I say _Please_, could you leave a review?

**Author's Note**:

(A) "Manhattan" 2x14 (what a great episode) gave us a glimpse of the ogre war with scenes at the humans' camp. Apparently, the humans ran their campaign with the intention of winning, but maybe this is just how it was run when Rumplestiltskin was younger and a soldier himself. If Dark One Rumplestiltskin could secure a truce on the battlefield the first day he had his powers (as disclosed in "The Return" 1x19), you have to wonder why the Duke of the Frontlands didn't have Zoso, the previous Dark One he'd enslaved, do the same thing sooner. Sheer stupidity on the Duke's part or could he have been using the war for his own ends? We'll just have to wait until Once Upon a Time can afford to create enough CGI ogres to give us the actual battlefield.

(B) 2x14 also verified Mr. Gold's desire to be the man that Bae once loved. When Bae said, "You used to be a good man," as his explanation of why he used to love him but didn't anymore, Rumple/Gold's response was, "I can be that man again. I've changed."


	6. Somewhere You've Been Before

_**Chapter 6**_

**Somewhere You've Been Before**

**Emma**: Uh? Can I help you? (_Pilot_)

As Neal crested the trees, he broke into a ridiculously boyish grin. _The bastard! _Emma thought. For an instant, his eyes met hers—sparkling as if he'd just returned with beer and pizza rather than after eleven years of not a single word of explanation. He turned before she could glare at him.

Without missing a beat, he swooped down, plucked Slightly one-handed from the lightning sand, swung him in an aerial victory dance, and perched him in a swamp cypress. Jubilant at being rescued, Slightly applauded. Below him, Freebird jumped up and down. "Me, too, Peter! Me, too!" Neal grabbed his outstretched hands, tossed him skyward, caught him, and parked him alongside Slightly.

Emma struggled to get a tighter grip on the twins. _Not only is Neal Cassidy a goddamn, double-crossing, no-good, son-of-a-bitch_—_he's a show off. _

For lack of Tinkerbelle and her magic dust, none of the Lost Boys had flown all day. Now they were acting as though Neal's hotdogging antics were the first they'd seen of the art. When the twins began squirming in different directions, she snapped, "Cut it out!"

As the words left her mouth, First Twin pried her fingers off his elbow and Second Twin chomped down on her wrist. "_Ouch!"_ Breaking free from Emma's protecting embrace, they lit out toward Neal, shouting, "Peter! Peter! Peter!"

And the Rodents of Unusual Size started after them.

"Neal!" she shrieked.

"Winslow, Arizona," he called back as he shot toward the twins.

Emma's mind flashed on the 1991 June morning when a side trip to the Jackson Browne statue had turned into an impromptu rescue of a tabby from a mob of stray dogs. She snatched a rock off the ground and pitched it at the biggest rodent, all the while snarling and growling to get its attention.

The ROU squealed. She kept the rocks flying as fast as she could find them. When the pack turned away from their prey to size up who was pelting them, Neal scooped up the twins. The double load didn't slow him down as he flew them to safety with their friends.

Emma experienced one blessed moment of relief.

But that left her facing six unusually sized rats. It had been bad enough when they'd been snarling but keeping their distance. Seeing them pant and edge toward her was far worse. When she'd been holding two wriggling boys, she must have looked like a menacing three-headed beast. Now that they could see she was one human being with one vulnerable neck, saliva was dripping off their fangs.

Emma didn't dare bend down for another stone. Instead, she steeled herself to the same advice she'd tried to give the twins: _Don't run. Don't show them your back. Don't look them in the eyes. _

Not a second too soon, Neal dropped from the sky on the other side of the pack, fell to his knees, and whistled. When the ROUS hesitated, then looked behind them, he smiled and held out his hands as if he were offering them tickles.

"Hey, guys, don't be shy," he murmured in sweet, caressing tones.

As the huge rats turned toward their new potential dinner, Emma's mouth dropped open. Though ROUS were dog-sized, that didn't mean they had dog natures. "Neal! Stop messing around_!"_

He added kissy noises. "Come to Papa."

"Noooooo," Emma moaned.

Neal waggled a cautionary finger at her and continued cooing at the ROUS. Emma's pulse pounded in her ears. Then, barely louder than the _thud, thud, thud_ of her heart, she caught the sound of the ROUS cooing back.

Neal patted his knees, and the beasts came trotting. In a moment, they surrounded him. They bumped and nuzzled. The largest rolled over on its back, and he scratched its furry belly.

_Just like that pack of mangy curs in Winslow._

Cheers broke out in the cypress above Neal and from the stand of trees across the clearing where the rest of the Lost Boys and Emma's companions had gathered.

_Damn you, Neal Cassidy. _She sank to the ground, sobbing.

* * *

For the second evening in a row, Smee kneeled before his coffee table, staring at the open biscuit tin. "I shot him," he repeated nervously, "but he just kept on walking. He may look like a man, but he's the Dark One through and through."

"Maybe you missed…" the soft, sweet voice drifted out from the white light.

Smee swallowed hard. "I—I didn't miss. I was within 300 yards. I could have hit him with a musket, let alone my Ruger."

"Maybe, just to be sure, you should try again…"

Smee remembered how his stomach had lurched when Mr. Gold, instead of crumpling, had calmly scanned the street. He couldn't go through that again. "No! I barely ducked down the alley as it is. I'm not cut out for this. I'm not an assassin. I'm more of a procurer, more a middle man type." As the lid creaked up, he began to shake. "No, no, no. Wh-wh-why don't you try your ray on him? Maybe magic—"

Gentle laughter billowed from the rusty box. "If dark magic is protecting him again, then no form of counter-magic can affect him—_save one_… but I want to make sure…"

Smee pulled his red cap down over his ears, but it couldn't block out the box's coaxing request.

"Tomorrow, be my good little man and hit him with something bigger."

* * *

Neal ruffled fur, scratched ears, and patted heads, trying to accommodate all six snuggling ROUS—but his attention was on Emma. Hearing from Tinkerbelle that she still loved him had made him as light as air. Seeing the evidence of her tears made him want to do loop-the-loops around the moon.

"Hey guys," he whispered to the rats. "That's my girl over there. Isn't she gorgeous?"

And she was. The kitten he'd adored eleven years earlier had become a lioness. No more black-rimmed glasses, no more tame ponytail. Her blonde hair was a wild mane around her magnificent face. And when she'd swept the tears from her deep brown eyes, he could see them flash.

Before Neal could extricate himself from the playful ROUS and go to her, the four comrades he'd rescued clambered down from the cypress and the rest hurried over from where they'd been watching. Soon lads he hadn't seen in sixteen years were pinching his biceps, poking his stubble-covered chin, and grabbing his hands to arm-wrestle. They looked the same age but thinner and dirtier than the last time he'd seen them. Clearly, Tink's attempts to keep him abreast of Hook's newest campaign against his crew hadn't told the whole story.

"You're Peter Pan?"

Looking up, Neal saw a sweet-faced, athletic young woman about Emma's age with tousled black hair. When he nodded, the woman grinned.

"I'd shake your hand—no. I'd _kiss_ you right now if I could get close enough. That was—"

"Heroic!" exulted the frail beauty next to her in the tattered princess robes. "Simply heroic!"

"Solid maneuvers," added the solemn but equally pretty armor-clad woman next to her.

The kind words made Neal both happy and bashful. It had been a long, long time since he'd done anything worthy of praise. But he wouldn't really believe it till he heard it from Emma. Looking past his three new admirers, he saw her striding purposefully toward him.

_Why does she look so mad?_

As soon as their eyes met, Emma began spluttering a stream of swear words. She didn't stop until she'd pushed between the princess and the soldier, wound her arm back, and let her fist fly.

The punch hit Neal squarely on the jaw, sending him sprawling on his backside. His comrades tumbled around him. The ROUS scattered.

"Emma! What in the world—?" the black-haired woman began.

Neal rubbed his jaw, staggered at the love of his life's wallop. And she was still seething.

"You want to know what I'm doing? Just introducing you to the son-of-a-bitch that knocked me up and ditched me to rot in jail."

_Son-of-a-bitch? _"I thought you… understood."

"That you sold me out."

_Sold you out?_

"Took the money and ran."

_Took the money?_

"Left me with nothing but a broke ass car."

Neal propped himself to a sitting position. _At least she got the car._

"Stole my self-respect, my youth, my sanity. Yes, I understand."

"But I _had_ to. At least, I thought I—"

Emma planted her hands on her hips. "Oh, really? You _had_ to? You had to leave me so rock bottom that the only thing I could give my son was a clean break in the hope he'd be adopted by a nice family?"

"You—you gave our son up for adoption?"

"You're surprised? Seriously?" Emma locked her arms across her chest as if that was the only way she could stop herself from hitting him again. "Wait till you hear _who_ adopted him: a sociopathic bitch known as the Evil Queen!"

Dismayed, all Neal could do was stare. He heard a pop. A dozen yards behind Emma, fire spouted into the sky. Its fury wasn't worse than the look on her face.

The black-haired woman patted Emma's shoulder. "Darling, maybe if we all calm down—"

Emma pulled away. "Not _now_, Mother."

_Mother?_ "August and Rheul Gorm told me it was the only way. I shouldn't have listened to them. But the curse—"

"The _curse?!_ So you were in on _that_, too? Let me tell you about _my _curse: it's _you_."

Neal heard the heartbreak in Emma's rage. The bliss he'd felt since morning disintegrated like the sand castle of wishful thinking it had always been.

Tootles gripped his shoulder. "Don't talk to Peter that way. He may have grown up, but he's still our leader."

"Grown up? Hah. Stop kidding yourself. And leader? He ditched you—the same way he ditched me and ditched my son. What kind of leader does that?"

Neal released his breath like a deflating balloon. "Oh, Emma. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Let me explain—"

"Save it." Her face was rigid with hurt and anger. "You want to know why you get along so well with the ROUS? It's because _you're_ the biggest rat of all." Stiffly, she about-faced and marched off toward the trees.

Glancing miserably at Tootles, Neal saw his untrustworthy little fairy friend standing on his shoulder—one hand on her hip, the other extended in a shrug.

"Like I said," Tink jingled. "Emma _true love_ loves you."

* * *

"Got 'em," Granny announced. "Now I can get to work."

Looking up from refilling ketchup bottles, Ruby sighed. _Thank goodness. _Oblivious to the curious stare of their first customer of the evening, Granny strode through the diner lugging the blow torch and protective gear she'd sworn she'd hustle up by nightfall. Ruby answered Belle's questioning glance with a smile, and her friend returned to reading.

"I told you Gold's was a waste of your time," Granny added and disappeared into the pantry.

At her Ex's name, Belle's head popped up again. Just as quickly, she lowered it to stare at her novel.

_But you're not fooling me_, Ruby thought. She strolled down the row of booths, plunking a full ketchup bottle on each table. When she reached her friend, she slid onto the opposite seat. "It wasn't _really_ a waste of time."

With the same mock casualness Mr. Gold had displayed the day before, Belle cocked her head and asked, "What wasn't a waste?"

"Going to Mr. Gold's. He enchanted my wolf charm to glow when I located something in his shop that used to be mine. I found a bow and arrow set Granny made me when I was a kid. I just didn't find the thing I was looking for."

"The _thing_?"

Ruby paused. She'd feel a lot better telling Belle the full story tomorrow after she found out whether she could retain her human consciousness after shape shifting—as she hoped—or whether she'd be pure ravening wolf as Granny feared. "Kind of a protective cloak… no big deal. Mr. Gold is going to enchant my scarf to replace it. Isn't that nice of him?"

Belle released a little "mmm" of agreement and took a bite of salad.

Ruby laughed and poked her friend. "You're as bad as he is. The whole time I was in his shop, he was _dying_ to ask about you. At first I wasn't going to say anything. Then I just had to put him out of his misery."

Belle took a quick gulp of iced tea. "What did you tell him?"

"Oh, that your boyfriends are running you ragged."

Appalled, Belle whispered, "You _didn't."_

"Of course, not. I told him the truth. You're busy working, reading, and doing Zumba." Ruby smiled. "Now go on. Ask me about _him_."

Belle shook her head. "You're awful."

_But you want to know, don't you?_ "Well, he told me things have settled down. No more harassment, break-ins, anonymous phone calls."

"Thank goodness." Belle inhaled deeply. "That was horrible—I knew when everyone had a chance to—well, helping Dr. Whale had to impress people. Anyone could see he had…" Her words trailed off awkwardly.

Before her friend had a chance to retreat again, Ruby reached over and closed her book. "Come on, admit it. You _miss_ him."

"So help me, I do..."

Ruby leaned forward. "Anything you want to share?"

Belle pressed her hands to her cheeks. "Am I blushing?"

_Like a rose. _"There's something else I forgot to tell you. In his shop yesterday, he was wearing his black suit, blue shirt, red tie combo. He looked _really_ hot."

"You should see him in leather pants." Belle sighed.

_Leather pants?_

Belle clasped her hands. "But I don't know what to do. When we were living together, Rumple was on edge the whole time—afraid to go beyond chitchat, afraid to say the wrong thing. It was like he couldn't get past how he'd felt when he believed I was gone forever. Every time I'd leave for a stroll, he looked like he expected to never see me again. When I'd return, he'd fall all over himself being cheerful when I knew what he really wanted to ask was why I hadn't just kept on walking."

_Wow._ "He sounds… insecure."

"It was as if he didn't truly believe I had come back. He was more at ease staring at my chipped cup and _thinking_ about me than he was _being_ with me."

Ruby thought of Peter. Fearing one's true love is gone forever was nothing like knowing it. One of these evenings, when the moon wasn't full and she had a really large bottle of wine, she'd confess the whole tragic tale to her friend. If Belle could see how lucky she was, she might give Mr. Gold another chance.

Suddenly, the door burst open. Six dwarfs, the head fairy, and Sheriff Charming crowded in, followed by little Henry.

"Drinks all around!" Happy shouted. "I'm buying!"

Belle fanned her cheeks a moment and put on a pleasant smile.

Ruby shot her a commiserating glance, then popped out of the booth to greet her customers. She hoped they wouldn't ask her about the banging and clanging coming out of the pantry. Granny needed to concentrate if she was going to weld the chains to the wall properly. Neither she nor Ruby wanted the slightest chance of loosing a hungry wolf on Storybrooke's populace. Glancing at the wall clock, she noted, _Just two hours until moonrise._

Grumpy dropped his pickaxe on the counter. "We struck fairy diamonds. Lots and lots."

* * *

Late that night, Snow White sat between Mulan and Aurora as a guest at Peter Pan's campfire. Since she'd already heard the story of the dozen Lost Boys who were now lost from their companions, she took the time to ponder a different story. Emma had never provided details about Henry's father—neither when they were two single women sharing a loft nor when they'd discovered they were mother and daughter. As Snow watched the grownup spirit-of-youth hold his solemn powwow, she realized Emma was far from knowing the full story, too.

On the one hand, she was happy to learn Emma's statement _Henry's father was no hero_ wasn't strictly true. Clearly, the Lost Boys saw Peter Pan's return as the hope that good would triumph over evil and their missing members would soon be found. And his presence wasn't so bad for Emma and her, either. If he'd flown to the Fire Swamp from Maine, then surely he could fly them back—even if it took him two trips. If her daughter wanted to see Henry again, then she could hold her anger for one flight.

On the other hand, that anger had been pretty upsetting to witness. Snow White had been stunned at the depth of pain this oversized child had caused her daughter. He certainly had some explaining to do.

Hearing a swooshing noise, Snow looked up. For the third time, Freebird, Nibs, and Rock swooped down from the treetop lookout post without Emma. Evidently, they hadn't been able to talk her out of taking yet another shift on watch. Her daughter had stranded herself up there since before dinner, refusing to take anything except a canteen and a handful of roasted pumpkin seeds. _Well, she has a lot to mull over._

The three hovering boys sheepishly shook their heads and drifted down into their previous positions in the circle. In the flickering light of the campfire, Snow saw Peter Pan's forehead knit mournfully as he squinted at the uppermost branches of Emma's tree. Then his expression became grave and resolute again as Nibs resumed his account of their capture of the four women.

"It was really more of a rescue," Aurora interjected.

"Tink thought they were Hook's wenches," Nibs explained.

The twinkling green light jingled, and Tootles automatically translated, "A mistake."

"Yeah, Tink's made a lot of them lately," Peter Pan mumbled.

In a few more minutes, to the Lost Boys' disappointment, their leader wrapped up the powwow with, "You've given me a lot to think about."

_We'll hear his plans tomorrow_, Snow thought.

Standing, he gathered the boys into a huddle. Then he looked over his shoulder and nodded for the women to join them.

Snow wedged herself in, slipping an arm around Slightly and stooping to slip her other around Curly.

Peter glanced around the tightly knit group. "I guess, under the circumstances, the cheer _Grownups spoil everything _would be out-of-place. Do you guys remember the one about the Musketeers?"

Snow saw Mulan and Aurora exchange quizzical looks, but she knew they'd catch on quickly enough.

"Okay. Ready, set—_All for one! And one for all!_"

By the ninth repeat, Snow felt a surge of warmth and solidarity. For the last three shouts, the chorus of voices seemed to her a promise that everything would turn out right in the end.

Snow hoped Emma was listening.

* * *

Early the next morning, Mr. Gold limped down the sidewalk from the Charming family loft smiling. Keeping his balance was a challenge, but the heavy antique leather satchel he was clutching made him feel like a physician returning from a house call. First Dr. Whale's arm, then Pinocchio's inanimation, and now Henry's night terrors—Storybrooke's residents would soon see that when the problem was dire, the man of magic was the one to call. _Almost as if I'm worthy. _

And telling Regina—_But this is for Henry. This one's on me_—had made him feel particularly grand. He'd always been fond of the boy. There was something about his eyes that reminded him of Bae.

As Mr. Gold rounded the corner onto the main street, he saw a commotion up the block at Franklin's Garage. Though he never had need of mechanics himself, he knew everyone who worked there—both as their Storybrooke landlord and as the wizard who had once charmed the lot of them into posing as Cinderella's servants and coach horses back in the Enchanted Forest. If Ella's family home hadn't been blessed with such a large assortment of sentient rodents, he might not have pulled off her temporary transformation into highborn lady at all.

Mr. Gold paused, reluctant to extend his walk with a detour but troubled as to why the receptionist and office manager were weeping and why the owner and his three mechanics looked angry.

Sighing, he carefully lowered his magic case to the sidewalk and reached for his cell. "Dial Franklin's." Not until nine rings did he see the owner look over his shoulder and hurry into his office.

"Hello, this is—"

"Jaq Franklin, yes. This is Mr. Gold."

"Was something wrong with our check?"

_Why does everyone think I live to discuss rent? _"No, it cleared. That's not the reason I'm calling. I happen to be down the street from your garage, and I can see some kind of disturbance. I wanted to ask—"

"Except for the rent, I don't think anything here is your business."

Mr. Gold closed his eyes. As he'd told Dr. Hopper, _People fear me, hate me, scorn me—just like they did in the Enchanted Forest._ Jaq the Mouse had just demonstrated the last two-thirds of the equation. He needed to be reminded of the first.

"As the biggest patron of Avalon Car Services, I can see to it that they're no longer _your_ business." He waited for Jaq to think that over.

"Okay. News like this won't stay quiet for long anyway. Gus, uh, Billy was murdered last night. It was gruesome. I really don't want to talk about it."

_Murdered? _"No, of course not," Mr. Gold said quickly. "My condolences—"

Jaq ended the call without further comment.

_Billy_. Wasn't that the young tow truck driver who liked to hang around Ruby? Mr. Gold bit his lip as he slipped his phone into his coat. Without her magic riding hood, how _had_ the lovely wolf girl spent the night? He'd assumed she would chain herself up. Had the lock failed?

_Fear, hate, scorn_. He was used to such treatment. He didn't like to think of Belle's best friend subjected to the same.

Positioning his cane for stability, Mr. Gold stretched down for his satchel. As quickly as he could, he turned away from Franklin's and hobbled toward his shop. If only he'd given priority to enchanting Ruby's scarf the day before, this tragedy might not have happened. At least he could provide her some protection before the moon rose again tonight.

* * *

_That damn tin is going to get me fired_. Yesterday, its demand he play trigger man had required Smee to fake the heaves at lunchtime and quit work early. Today's mission to hit Mr. Gold with something _bigger_ had required him to call in with the flu. If his search for a car to jack took him down the same streets as Moe's deliveries, he'd be looking for a new job.

Not that he expected anyone in _this_ neighborhood to order a dozen roses. He was trawling the crap side of town—fences needing slats, roofs needing shingles, garages needing paint. One block over, in a shed with a busted window, he'd lucked out finding a cordless drill all powered up plus a flathead screwdriver and a pair of torn but thick gloves. If he could just find a clunker that wasn't up on blocks, he'd be sailing.

Smee passed two more houses with overgrown yards and mud driveways before he saw it—a true galleon of a car with three windows per side, massive chrome bumpers, and a belligerent figurehead atop its prow. The medallion on the front identified it as a Pontiac, the chrome writing on its portside as a Streamliner Wagon.

Pity such a shipshape ride would soon be involved in a crash.

* * *

Mr. Gold studied the fringed checkered scarf laid out on his work table. The colors were fortunate—black like the night and silver like the moon. The trick was to concoct the right potion to infuse it with the power to prevent Ruby from turning until she'd regained her confidence in controlling the changes herself. Happily, his store of magical herbs—like the citizens of Storybrooke—had not aged during the long years of the curse. He was certain he had some dried wolf's bane somewhere.

Twisting to the shelf behind him, he summoned the ancient, rat-chewed volume he'd mentioned to Dr. Hopper: _The Ins and Outs of Transformation._

He cast his gaze down the table of contents. He'd never enchanted an object to arrest a transformation before. It would have helped if Ruby had known whether her family's shape shifting was an inherent trait or a perpetuated curse. For that matter, she could be descended from a long line of sentient wolves. In that case, the human guise she carried off so beautifully for all but a few moonlit hours per month could be the aberrant state. For all he knew, her natural form could be the wolf.

* * *

By late morning, Peter Pan still hadn't given the Fire Swamp camp a plan. In fact, he hadn't emerged from the vine-draped lean-to where he'd spent the night. When Slightly had walked in with his breakfast, he'd walked out with it uneaten.

_Emma wouldn't eat, either_, Snow thought. But at least she'd surrendered her marathon _on watch_ duty and was now asleep. Surely Peter wasn't sleeping, too?

Snow folded her arms. _Time for explanations_. Putting on her most authoritative fourth grade teacher face, she strode up to the littlest Lost Boy Alfie who was playing sentry. She snapped out a salute and—before he could object—swept back the snarled vines and entered Peter's sanctum.

He wasn't asleep. He was sitting cross-legged on his grass mat, clasping his head, looking more lost than the boys outside.

"So," she began, "my grandson's father is Peter Pan. I've read about you."

He raised his head. "Good or bad?"

"A little of both."

He gave her a lopsided smile. "And you're Snow White. Back in the Earth dimension, you have a rep, too. But you don't look like the pushover everyone says."

"Thanks." Snow brushed off the other mat and sat. "If you're talking about the cursed apple, the Evil Queen didn't fool me into eating it. I took a bite so she'd spare Charming's life."

"The Evil Queen." Peter groaned. "That's who Emma said adopted our son."

"Not as bad as it sounds. Henry's the one person she'd never harm. She truly loves him."

Peter sagged. "Well, she's probably not a worse parent than I would have been."

Snow studied him. The dimples that had flared from the corners of his brown eyes when he'd zoomed up the day before were gone. Instead, dejection lined his forehead as it had when Emma had stomped off. "Now I know how _you_ differ from your storybook version. You're not conceited."

"What do I have to be conceited about? Every course I've ever taken in my life has been wrong. My decisions seem right at the time, but they always end up a big, fat mess. And now I've fucked up again. I should never have come here."

"How can you say that? Without you, Slightly and the Twins would be dead."

"Would they?" Peter shrugged. "If Tink had come back alone, her fairy dust would have pulled Slightly up from the lightning sand. If the twins hadn't seen me, they'd never have run. With Tink's dust, they'd have flown too and saved Emma."

_He has a point_. "Why _did_ you come?"

Peter rubbed his unshaven chin. "Tink said, well, Tink _lied_ that all was forgiven, that Emma still loved me."

"Huh. I was lied to by a fairy, too. Rheul Gorm, in fact. If you know about the Storybrooke curse, then you know that when Emma was a baby, Prince Charming and I sent her to earth through a magic wardrobe. If we'd known it had enough magic to transport two, I could have come with her. If Geppetto had insisted Pinocchio have the second spot anyway, at least we could have given him instructions for her."

Peter sighed. "Pinocchio. That's August, right? From what Emma said yesterday, I think _he_ lied to me. About a lot of things. Looking back, I don't know why I believed him _or_ Rheul Gorm."

"Well, it was true that Emma was the savior. Her love for Henry broke the curse."

"But would she have loved him any less if we'd raised him as a family? I'm not much, but I would have tried my best. Instead of just talking to me, Rheul Gorm could have talked to both of us. Then we both would have learned we had good reason to help Storybrooke when the time came. Emma had you and Charming. I had my papa."

Snow White raised her eyebrows. "_Your_ father is in Storybrooke?"

"Rheul Gorm told me I had to make a sacrifice to help him, and I agreed. He'd sacrificed so much for me. He's the most caring, humble, selfless man I've ever known."

_Who can that be? _"If _he's_ in Storybrooke, then both of you must be from _here_. That's not in Mr. Barrie's story, either."

Peter winced. "I've abandoned people who needed me in three different universes. First my papa here. Then my crew from Neverland. Then Emma and our son on earth."

Snow patted his hand. She'd never seen anyone so forlorn in all her life. "Well, the Lost Boys are glad you're back."

"That makes it even worse." Peter shuddered. "Everyone's counting on me. And I'm going to let them down. I can't fly anymore. I'm useless."

Snow sucked in her breath. And if Peter couldn't fly a mission with the Lost Boys to find their friends, then he couldn't fly Emma and her back to Storybrooke. Without happy thoughts, Peter Pan was stuck here, just like they were.

* * *

_Finally_. Smee slid low on the bench front seat of the hotwired Pontiac Streamliner just far enough so he could still observe the Dark One over the dashboard. He'd been waiting for him to step outside his pawn shop since morning, and he was starving. With any luck, he could run him over in time to make happy hour at the Three Billy Goats Bar & Grill.

Thinking of the beer he'd soon be guzzling, sent Smee's thoughts back to the Frontlands tavern where he'd first seen the Dark One. He doubted whatever was inside that damn biscuit tin would do for him what the scaley-skinned wizard had promised—_spin the clock back till you're a little boy again._ At this point, he'd be happy if it agreed to leave him alone.

Smee pulled down the face-covering part of the navy blue ski mask he'd nicked for the job. Then he twisted the screwdriver in the ignition and revved the engine. The time it would take the Dark One to lock his door and totter to the intersection should warm up the old motor. This deed required speed.

* * *

**Me, again**: Please leave a note to say what's good, what's bad, what needs explaining. Anything is helpful and much appreciated! Thanks.


	7. All the Help You Can Get

_**Chapter 7**_

**All the Help You Can Get**

**Emma**: I don't need anything (_Desperate Souls_).

An hour after sunset, Pinocchio pulled his motorcycle up to the curb around the corner from the pawnshop entrance, stomped on the kickstand, and cut the engine. The side street was unlit but the lamps lining the main street up ahead were bright. As he unbuckled his helmet, Mr. Gold came into view, limping past the front of his shop toward the intersection.

_Perfect timing_. Pinocchio hopped off his motorcycle. "Hello! Can I ask you something? It'll only take a second."

Mr. Gold stopped and pivoted on his cane. "Pinocchio? Or is it August when you're on your bike?"

Swinging his helmet, Pinocchio strode toward him. "It's August when I'm _leaving town_ on my bike. That's what I want to ask you about. I'm still immune to the Storybrooke curse, aren't I? If I travel to the other side of the globe, I'll still remember my roots? That my father carved me from wood, that I used to have strings, that I came from the Enchanted Forest?"

"You know my views. Why are you asking?"

When he reached Mr. Gold, Pinocchio put on his most engaging smile. "So you can call my Dad and put his mind at ease. I've lined up some trade journal articles to pay my way to Singapore. I don't want him worrying, but I don't want to miss this opportunity to—"

"—see something beyond this dreary little town? Who can blame you?" Mr. Gold's voice dripped with sarcasm. "What's it been… _two days_ since you and Geppetto could talk together as father and son, catch up on _twenty-nine years_ of separation? I'm sure that's been _more_ than enough time to say all that needed to be said."

Pinocchio frowned. _A guilt trip isn't what I was planning on taking. _He shifted his weight, remembering the Blue Fairy's visit the night before. Her style had been more direct than Mr. Gold's, but she'd laid on her reproaches just as thickly. And that gave him an idea: play one against the other.

Pinocchio let his shoulders sag and his face look sad. Sometimes even the truth required the proper presentation. "What Rheul Gorm told Dad is that if I leave, he'll never see me again—that now I don't have strings my trade will be eating, drinking, sleeping, playing, and wandering around from morning till night." At the fairy's name, Mr. Gold's eyelids had lowered. In a moment, their rivalry would get Pinocchio what he'd asked for.

Instead, he heard Mr. Gold sigh. "And Geppetto… he's sorry I ever came to his house."

Surprised at hearing resignation in Mr. Gold's voice, Pinocchio dropped his act. "No, no. The opposite. He told her, 'My boy's a young man. Wandering _should_ be his trade.'"

Mr. Gold looked up.

Pinocchio leaned forward. "Dad's _proud_ I'm published—even though it's only a couple of paperback thrillers. That's the truth. And he likes my idea for a Singapore mystery. He just needs reassurance I'll remember I have a father to visit after I'm done exploring." He cocked his head to one side. "He'd appreciate a call."

Mr. Gold blinked.

_Once for yes?_ Pinocchio grinned. "Dad knows Rheul Gorm has an agenda when it comes to me. He trusts you to give him a straight answer."

"Fine." Mr. Gold turned away, but not before Pinocchio caught him smiling. "I have an important errand at the diner. I'll ring Geppetto after."

"Thanks."

Mr. Gold raised a hand as both an acknowledgement and a farewell and continued hobbling to the intersection.

_He's not such a bad guy_. Pinocchio settled his helmet back on his head. To be fair, he _should_ tell Mr. Gold who really drew the dagger picture.

Hearing the rumble of an older model car, Pinocchio peered down the main street and saw a massive 1950's station wagon with a huge chrome grille like a toothy grin. Its white paint gleamed under the streetlamps. He had just enough time for an admiring smile before his jaw dropped. The car hadn't stopped for the red light. It was squealing into a sharp turn—straight at Mr. Gold.

Pinocchio started running toward him.

_Too late_. The monstrous whale of a car struck him full on. Pinocchio froze, horrified, as Mr. Gold tumbled up the hood, bashed into the windshield, sailed into the air, and rolled off the back. He smacked the pavement, limbs askew like a marionette's. Pinocchio raced to help him.

The driver didn't even slow down.

* * *

Again Belle surveyed the hideout Acting Sheriff David had chosen. The backroom of the library that housed the fiction stacks was conveniently windowless. She and Ruby could keep the lights on from moonrise to moonset yet not risk being seen by King George's vigilantes. After rumors about Billy the Mouse's death looking like a wolf attack had spread through the town, the deposed monarch had had no problem raising malcontents willing to prove how tough they were.

Ruby's problem now wasn't the mob; it was her own self-doubts. Before today Belle had never known her friend to be anything but perky and confident. To see her brunette hair tangled rather than artfully tousled was disturbing. She hadn't even changed from the Bohemian red and black patchwork dress she'd worn the day before.

_Poor Ruby. _Belle mustered her most reassuring voice. "No matter what you might've done in your past, David sees the good in you and that tells me one thing."

"What?" Ruby asked.

"That it's in there." Belle glanced at the manacle her friend was about to put on. Even though its purpose was to give Ruby peace of mind that her wolf self wouldn't tear up the library, the sight made Belle wince. Devices like that still haunted her nightmares. _I can't let her be locked up by herself. _"So if we can all see it, why can't you?"

"You really think so?" Ruby asked.

_That you're a good person? Of course!_ Belle stepped closer, ready to give Ruby a hug. "Trust me. I'm sort of an expert when it comes to rehabilitation." As she spoke, she could see the anxiety leave Ruby's dark brown eyes.

"Maybe—maybe, you're right."

At her friend's words, Belle smiled. She was getting through. Then, without warning, she felt the familiar chill of iron being clamped around her wrist. Aghast, she looked down—wanting to deny what her eyes saw. _I'm a free woman. That can't be a chain._ A nauseating dread welled up inside her. She tried to concentrate on what Ruby was saying, but the words were muffled—like the comings and goings of faceless people beyond a cell door.

"No, no, no…" Belle murmured as Ruby walked away, "what… what are you doing?" _Leaving me chained to a wall… alone…_

Ruby paused in the doorway. "I can't let you stop me. The mob wants a wolf. I'm going to give them one. I need to pay for all I've done."

_The mob?_ The term shocked Belle back to the present. "They'll kill you!"

Ruby's eyes were calm and determined. "Isn't that what I deserve?"

Ruby dashed around the corner and out of sight. In a moment, Belle heard the library's front door open and slam. David had told her to call him if the mob came their way. Now Ruby was going to the mob. _Why didn't I keep my cell phone on me! _Instead, the magical gadget that Granny had picked out for her and young Henry had patiently demonstrated sat in her coat pocket atop the checkout desk—far beyond the reach of her chain. _I've failed everyone. _

Her manacle clanked. Belle cringed. The chain felt impossibly heavy, and it dragged her down. Sinking to the floor, she clasped her free arm around her knees and began rocking. The shackled arm she dangled as if it weren't a part of her.

_I'm just a privileged rich girl—sheltered, incompetent, clueless_. And no matter how earnestly she tried to deny it by working, reading, and playing at solving everyone else's problems, that didn't change. Had she really told Ruby _I'm sort of an expert when it comes to rehabilitation_? _Hah._ Just another instance of figuring if she said the optimistic thing, a bright outcome would follow. Whom was she fooling? She couldn't even rehabilitate herself.

Belle's lips and fingertips tingled, and she realized her breathing was too fast, too shallow. She forced herself to recall the advice for managing panic attacks she'd culled from psychology books on torture and false imprisonment—count to five for each inhalation and exhalation and orient herself to her surroundings. But when she glanced up she recognized for the first time that the height of the library ceiling was the same as her cell in the Evil Queen's palace. Steel shelves surrounded her, reminding her of the iron plates riveted to the tower walls.

Belle moaned. The queen's hateful voice reverberated in her mind, gloating over plans to destroy Rumplestiltskin. Then as now, the thing she had to do, she couldn't do—warn and help. She was worse than useless. She was a thing controlled by others' whims. A pawn.

* * *

Mr. Gold lay on the pavement, dazed from his impromptu flight. If he could just sit up, he'd be able to clear his head. But as soon as he raised himself, just a little, Pinocchio was crouching by his side, pushing him back down while speaking urgently into his cell phone.

Mr. Gold saw concern in Pinocchio's pale blue eyes as he ended his call, jammed his cell in his leather jacket and leaned forward. "Don't move. Not till the EMT's check you out. If you have a spinal injury you're risking paralysis."

Mr. Gold grimaced. Already, he could hear sirens. "No ambulance. I don't have a good relationship with the medical establishment." _I'd rather die than have Dr. Whale hear I needed science._

"I also called the sheriff," Pinocchio added. "I think you were struck intentionally."

"Intentionally? Charming will say I had it coming." He stretched his good leg out and reached down to straighten his lame one. _Nothing broken_. Again, he began propping himself up. When Pinocchio reached over to press him flat again, Mr. Gold scowled. "Don't make me zap you."

He saw Pinocchio smile faintly and lean back on his haunches. "So, do you have a good relationship with anybody?"

Mr. Gold narrowed his eyes warningly. Being smacked by a car was enough aggravation for one day. Sitting at last, he assessed his situation. Not only was a second suit ruined, but his raincoat as well. And what was worse, half of his cane lay splintered nearby while the half with the brass head lay on the other side of the brightly lit intersection. Soon one of the gawkers would snatch it as a trophy. _No matter_. The only essential was Ruby's enchanted scarf. Seeing the black-and-silver twill several yards away, he pointed to it. "Please. Could you retrieve that for me?"

Pinocchio jumped to his feet and strode over to it. He held it up with a quizzical look, apparently wondering why Mr. Gold had such a feminine accessory.

"Not mine," he said hastily. "Ruby's. I'm returning it to her."

Pinocchio's sudden grin said, _Oh, you lucky dog_.

Mr. Gold rolled his eyes. Did Pinocchio think the young lady had forgotten it after a night of passion? _Ridiculous_. He was almost glad when the ambulance pulled in between them—until a plump old woman and a frizzy-haired youth began dragging a stretcher out the back. Off the ambulance, its wheels dropped and the EMTs rolled it forward. In a moment, they lowered the contraption beside him.

"I don't need that. If I could just get some assistance standing—"

"Hold your horses," said the uniformed female. "We'll examine your legs shortly. First, let me check your pulse."

Mr. Gold pushed her hand away. "Don't you know who I am?"

When the gray-haired woman folded her arms, something about her glare looked familiar. "Of course I do, but it's my job to help anyone who's injured—regardless of my personal feelings."

Mr. Gold studied her a moment. "I thought I recognized you." _This is the old woman who used to live in a giant's boot. She's not plump. She's pregnant. _"You're angry with me, dear, but don't forget _you're_ the one who asked for a fertility potion. Which child is this? Seventeen? It's not my fault you haven't checked out this world's many forms of birth control."

"Ha, ha. You should know none of them work for me."

_Really?_ Mr. Gold felt a moment of pride.

The old woman glowered at him. "The only method that _does _work, well, my husband says he'd rather starve."

Walking up behind the EMT, Pinocchio snickered. She harrumphed and grabbed Mr. Gold's wrist again. When she leaned forward to shine a flashlight in his eyes, he opened them wide.

"See? Not in shock. What I'd meant was that if you know I'm Mr. Gold, then you know I _always _need assistance standing. I'm unharmed by the accident—not even bleeding. I was thrown clear. But my cane is broken. If you have something I can borrow—a crutch—I'll be on my way."

The EMT clicked off her flashlight. "We have crutches, sure. They're for people who suffer injuries in an accident and need to be seen in the emergency room. But you're _unharmed_, so…" She shrugged.

"No crutch for me. Naturally. What was I thinking?" At his back Mr. Gold could hear the police car screeching to a stop. The siren's whine and the engine's roar ended abruptly, but the red light continued flashing around the intersection. To his chagrin, he noticed the spectators had edged closer. _This circus must end._

Looking over his shoulder, he saw Charming striding toward him. "Acting Sheriff, if you could just tell this kind woman—"

"What's this about a car running you down?" Charming stopped, towering over Mr. Gold. "You look fine."

"I am. I was thrown clear. I just need a—"

"He can't walk." The creases fanning from the corners of the old woman's eyes gave her a look of malicious satisfaction.

Mr. Gold blew out his breath. "Well, of course I can't, dearie, but if you'll _please_ lend me a crutch, that child you're carrying shall forever be known as the baby of the family."

He watched her catch his meaning and her spite turn to joy. Springing to her feet, she said, "I'll go find one now." She scurried to the ambulance, her gray ponytail bouncing.

"But they're for people who suffered injuries," her skinny partner called after her.

"I write your evaluations, mister. Come help me look."

_Finally_. Mr. Gold glanced up at Pinocchio. "Could you give me a boost?"

Pinocchio nodded, reached under his armpits, and yanked him to his feet.

_Undignified, but better than squatting on the pavement._ Holding the younger man's shoulder with one hand, Mr. Gold brushed off his clothing with his other. One sleeve of his black Burberry raincoat was abraded down to the lining, and his dark blue pants were torn and stained with oil. With a sigh, he lifted his gaze to see Charming frown.

"Why do you need a crutch? You mended Dr. Whale's arm. Can't you mend two cracked pieces of wood?"

_If I could mend my cane, dearie, I'd mend my damn leg. _Mr. Gold was considering various derisive responses when Pinocchio butted in.

"If the cane belonged to you or me, he could, but when—"

Mr. Gold cut him off. "I don't have time for explanations. Suffice it to say _magic works differently here_."

"You still need to provide a statement on the hit-and-run," Charming said. "I know why _I'm _in a hurry to go. Why are you?"

"He's returning Ruby's scarf." Nudging Mr. Gold and winking, Pinocchio handed over the length of fringed, checkered cloth. "But if I were him, I'd go home and change first. I think Ruby's the sort of girl who appreciates—"

"August has it wrong," Mr. Gold broke in, though the look of surprise and reevaluation on Charming's face had been rather gratifying. "Ruby lent me her scarf so I could place a spell on it. To be on the safe side, I cast three."

"Oh, _that's_ why you have it." Charming looked relieved.

_As if I couldn't get Ruby if I wanted her._ Before Mr. Gold could retort to Charming, the EMTs returned. The skinny one thrust out a crutch. Letting go of Pinocchio, Mr. Gold slipped it under his arm. He took a couple of steps, swung around, and hobbled back to smile at the older EMT. "Come by my shop at five tomorrow, dear—no, the evening after. I'll have the anti-potion ready. You can collect this crutch then, too. Deal?"

"Deal," she agreed and clapped her hands together. Humming, she strolled back to the ambulance, trailed by her co-worker.

Charming stared at them, then Pinocchio. "What I have to say to Mr. Gold is kind of private."

"It's about Ruby. And her scarf. Apparently… she needs magic." Pinocchio glanced from Mr. Gold to Charming. "So the rumor is _true_? She _does_ turn into a wolf? And last night she killed—"

"No. She didn't. I'm positive."

Mr. Gold knew Charming's statement was nothing but a bold assertion. If he had proof, he'd have said. But he could see that Pinocchio looked reassured.

"Back in the Enchanted Forest, she was a rebel fighter," Charming continued. "She played a big role in defeating King George. He's stirred up a bunch of his old soldiers who want payback. They'd have no regrets shooting a wolf, but if that scarf can keep her human, they wouldn't dare."

Pinocchio rubbed his chin. "You've stowed her somewhere… for her own protection… the city jail?"

"You guessed it." Charming widened his blue eyes so innocently that Mr. Gold suspected he was lying. "Just keep it to yourself."

Pinocchio took a step forward. "I want to help. If a mob shows up, you'll need more warm bodies on your side."

Charming shifted his weight. Then he folded his arms. "All right. You've convinced me. Meet us outside the jail. But hurry."

Pinocchio grinned. "No problem." He tightened the strap on his helmet and jogged to his bike.

When Pinocchio was out of earshot, Mr. Gold glanced sidelong at Charming. "So… Ruby is _not_ in the jail."

Charming nodded, then jerked his head toward his cruiser and started walking.

Mr. Gold had to swing the crutch quickly to keep up. "You know, you _could _trust August with a pretty young woman's secret." _After all, I'm trusting him with a potentially dangerous secret about me._ The only other person besides his son to ever see the Dark One's dagger hadn't been so lucky.

"No sense taking chances," Charming replied. "Ruby's chaining herself to a sturdy pipe in the library. I'll drop you there. Then Granny's going to help me do a little investigating."

* * *

Neal had to admit, his crew had done well without him. In Neverland, a variety of fruit-bearing plants and obligingly slow-moving beasts had kept everyone well-fed. The Fire Swamp wasn't so hospitable, but that hadn't daunted his guys. With boyish experimentation, they'd discovered that cattails were edible, that snares could catch marsh rabbits, and that the pumpkin seeds Tink had flown back from earth grew just about anywhere. The huts his men had built weren't as cozy as their underground hideout had been, but what could one expect in ten weeks? At least, no one had disappeared.

Where _had_ Hook's pirates hidden the boys they'd kidnapped in Neverland? To figure that out, Neal needed thoughts happy enough to send him aloft to do some spying.

On the other side of the campfire, Emma was playing twenty questions with half a dozen of his mates. Gazing at her, Neal reminded himself that happiness with her was gone forever. From the time she'd crawled out of her blankets until now, she'd been a whirlwind of friendliness and usefulness—but not once had she glanced his way.

At this moment, the important thing was to figure out how to get his never-again true love back to their son. To do so, he needed to pay attention to what her mother was asking him.

"What about the Lost Boys? They flew us here from the Backlands Mountains. Storybrooke is probably farther but couldn't they manage it? Perhaps in shifts?"

"They could do that distance easy," Neal replied, "if only they could fly to earth at all."

In the flickering firelight, Neal saw Snow White frown. "But I thought they all _came_ from earth."

"Yes. And the thought of returning upsets them. The twins' family died from the plague… Nibs' father beat his mother to death… Freebird's parents were killed by bloodhounds in Mississippi… The rest have stories just as bad or worse."

Pressing her fingers to her throat, Snow murmured, "Oh. I—I had no idea."

"My first experience with earth was unhappy too. If it hadn't been, Tink wouldn't have whisked me to Neverland."

Snow curled her fingers under her chin. "When was that?"

"Mid-seventeen-hundreds." When Snow's eyes widened, Neal returned a crooked smile. "In Neverland one never ages. Barrie got that part right."

She nodded.

"It turned out my given name—Baelfire—was scary by earth standards. _Bael_ is the name of a demon and _fire_ sounds like hell. When I fell through a portal right into the middle of a little country funeral, everyone freaked. For three days the local vicar protected me. Then some milkmaid found a toad in her butter churn. The next thing I knew, I was running from a mob. They caught me hiding in a shed and set fire to it. Tink snatched me up through the roof just in time."

"Goodness. How did you manage to fall through a portal in the first place?"

Neal sighed and shook his head. "My papa was under a curse. It did horrible things to him. I asked Rheul Gorm for a way out, and she recommended leaving the Enchanted Forest for a world _without_ magic. There a curse would have no effect. That solution was pretty extreme, but I thought, _go for it._ I stupidly assumed Papa agreed with me. I should have talked it out with him, answered his questions, been more sensitive about his fears. That's the least I could have done. After all, Papa had taken on the curse for my sake—to save me from the Ogre Wars."

"The Frontlands Massacres?"

"So that's what the history books called them." Neal chuckled softly. "I was fourteen with visions of going into battle and saving the day. Instead, my papa did. He ended the war."

Neal heard Snow inhale sharply. Suddenly, she looked ill.

He leaned forward. "Are you okay?" _Slightly needs to boil his rabbit stew a little longer._

"Yes, yes," she said quickly. "Let me get this straight. _Your_ father—my grandson's grandfather—he's the one who secured the ogre truce?"

"Yes." Smiling, Neal sat up straighter. If Henry found his father lacking in admirable qualities, at least he could be proud of his grandfather. "Eighteenth century England found my name strange. I can't imagine what they'd have made of Papa's. I bet even _you_ can't guess it."

Snow cleared her throat. In a raspy voice, she answered, "Rumplestiltskin."

* * *

Stepping into the library, Mr. Gold pointed back at the door, using magic to shut it and lock it—something he was still unable to do for his own house and shop. The main room was dark, but the hallway beyond was lit. Faintly, he caught the sound of whimpering. His forehead wrinkled. _Poor Ruby_. The moon would rise soon. Evidently, she was dreading its effects.

"Ruby, dear, this is Mr. Gold," he called out as he limped across the floor. "I've cast three different spells on your scarf. One of them should do the trick."

Then he heard a sob that was definitely not Ruby. He tensed. The sound was like his own darling Belle racked by night terrors, unable to fight her way out of sleep. He swung the crutch out further, leaning into it, quickening his pace.

"Belle! I'm here."

The crutch thumped rhythmically on the linoleum floor as Mr. Gold rounded the corner and hurried down the hall. When he reached the fiction room and saw Belle slumped on the floor with one hand chained to the wall, his face crumpled. He jerked his wrist with such force that his power snapped the manacle in two and whipped it across the room to clang against a steel shelf.

"Oh, Belle." He threw down the crutch, dropped the scarf, hopped four steps, then collapsed beside her, enfolding her in his arms and nestling her against his shoulder. His mind cried _I'll protect you_, but he knew those words wouldn't help. Instead, he whispered, "You're free, you're free."

A tremor ran through her. She wrapped her arms around him, pressing close, molding herself to his body. His pulse raced, and he closed his eyes. _We fit together perfectly_—as they had when she'd tumbled off the ladder into his arms, when she'd escaped the lockup ward to find him in his shop, and every night of the bittersweet interval when she'd shared his bed. The memories flooded his mind, melting into a vision of Belle and him like two strands of true love entwining in a sparkling magical dance, tantalizing him with promises of exquisite joy.

He shuddered. _Lies. All lies_. The thought of them together was absurd. She was well rid of him. For her sanity and wellbeing she had to remain so. But he would protect her—always, in any possible way he could.

Belle stirred inside his arms, and he inhaled deeply. He'd thought their embrace in the mines had been their last. Now he'd been granted _another_ last time. Sighing, Mr. Gold committed every detail to memory. Then he steeled himself to pull back and touch her chin. When she raised her head, her gaze was dreamy, sending a delicate shiver down his spine. He forced himself to ignore it.

"Who did this to you?" he asked. "Who chained you up?"

Belle blinked. Then her lips parted. "Oh, Rumple. Ruby is throwing herself on the mercy of the mob. She didn't want me stopping her. She didn't… didn't know I… didn't know I…" Her words trailed off in gasping breaths.

As Mr. Gold stroked Belle's hair, an image of Ruby as a snail popped into his head. Hastily, he banished it, reminding himself what a sweet young thing she was. "She didn't know you'd been locked up before." _Including, by me._

"We—we have to help her," Belle said.

"That's why I came. I enchanted her scarf to control her transformation. But if I have to spend time looking for her—" From outside the library, came a distinctive lonesome howl. He sucked air through his teeth. Then slowly, he shook his head. "Too late."

Belle bit her lip. "But the scarf will work _after_ she's a wolf, won't it? Change her back? If I could get close enough…"

"No." Mr. Gold stared into Belle's blue eyes still puffy from crying. "It's too dangerous."

She swallowed hard. "But not—not if you're there."

Mr. Gold recalled her confession from so many years before. _I always wanted to be brave. I figured do the brave thing and bravery would follow._ Right now her gaze was anxious and her chin was trembling. Every instinct rebelled against the thought of risking the slightest harm to his sweet, matchless Belle. But he knew the soul-numbing, mind-corroding effects of not standing up to one's fears.

"You trust me?" he asked.

Taking a deep breath, she nodded.

"I think I can stop the wolf from hurting us without hurting the wolf. But we _must_ stick together." As he spoke, Mr. Gold saw the light returning to her eyes. He sat up straighter. "Okay, then. If you could fetch me that crutch and the scarf…" He pointed.

Belle sprang up to do as he'd asked. She scooped them up and faced him again. Then she frowned. "Rumple… what happened to your clothes?"

Mr. Gold felt his cheeks warming. He'd never let Belle see him _unkempt_ before. "A car bumped me. I'm fine. My cane and suit…"

Before he could finish, she was crouching by his side, one hand resting on his back while the other cupped his cheek. "Why didn't you tell me?"

For a moment, he couldn't speak. _Doesn't she know her touch makes me weak_? Then he forced a nonchalant smile to his face. "It was nothing. Not a scratch on me. I was… thrown clear."

Trying to keep his hand steady, Mr. Gold reached for the crutch. Instead Belle slipped her arm under his, bent her back, and began to stand—as if a beautiful young woman propping up a disreputable cripple were the most natural thing in the world.

When they were both upright, she offered him the scarf and then the crutch. "This is _so_ not you. No panache, no—"

From outside, Mr. Gold caught the noise of angry people approaching the library. He pressed his index finger to his lips. Belle squeezed his arm, telling him she'd heard it too. They froze, waiting. Then the wolf howled again. He could make out King George's voice, but the words were too muffled to understand.

_Cantankerous old tyrant_, Mr. Gold thought. He'd never liked him. No matter how good the deal, he'd always demanded something more.

Belle whispered, "Back door?"

Mr. Gold bundled up Ruby's scarf under his arm. "Lead the way." _I hope the mob doesn't reach her first._

* * *

As soon as Snow said _Rumplestiltskin_, she wished she hadn't. But she couldn't un-ring the bell.

In quick succession, Baelfire-Peter-Neal looked surprised, impressed, puzzled, and worried. Finally he said, "Your realm was way on the other side of the Enchanted Forest. Over the years, did Papa really become that… _famous_?"

Snow smiled brightly. If she could just stick to the truth while avoiding the _awful_ truth, then maybe she could avoid grounding Peter Pan for life. "Rumplestiltskin was legendary for the ogre truces. He didn't just negotiate one for the Frontlands. He negotiated truces with all the ogre tribes in the Enchanted Forest—including the ones in my neck of the woods."

Peter released his breath slowly. "That's the kind of thing Papa dreamed of doing—turning the curse's power toward good."

Snow wrinkled her brow. _Really?_ She hadn't even suspected before that Rumplestiltskin was originally a man. That his magic had stemmed from a curse was news too. But that he'd wanted to use his power for good was the biggest surprise of all.

Shaking his head, Peter smiled. "I know there's a Brothers Grimm fairytale called _Rumplestiltskin_. The only thing they got right is his spinning wheel."

_And enticing people into unsavory deals. And always exacting a price. And a penchant for calculating his price in babies. _To Peter she said, "What do you expect?"

Snow craned her neck to observe her daughter on the far side of the campfire. Nibs, Freebird, Rock, Curly, Slightly and the cherub were vying for her attention, and she was delighting them all—a pat here, a word there, and an appreciative laugh all around. _Emma's a natural born mothe_r. What would she think of Mr. Gold as grandfather to Henry? And what would she say about him to Peter Pan?

* * *

Belle's mind raced as she and Rumple slipped out the backdoor of the library. Looking up into the black, starry night, she inhaled a lungful of salty sea air. Being under an open sky was so exhilarating, it made her feel guilty. _We're here to help Ruby_.

Pulling her coat collar closed against the chill, Belle peeked around the dumpster, then back at Rumple. He was holding his head to the side, listening. Being with him again seemed so right it brought a sweet ache to the pit of her stomach. When he pointed up the alley, she nodded. Faintly, she could hear the cries and shouts of King George's rabble rousers.

Rumple began limping toward the side street, setting a good pace. Despite its inelegance, the crutch was definitely a more efficient support than his cane. Belle walked double-time to keep up.

At the end of the alley, they both peered around the side of the library. The mob sounded near, but it wasn't in sight. Then another wolf howl pierced the night, and Rumple tugged her sleeve.

"The confrontation may already be happening," he said. "To get close enough to do Ruby any good we need to be in front of the mob, but I doubt we'll manage it."

"We have to try."

Together, they hurried down the sidewalk toward the main street.

Without slowing down, Belle pulled out her cell. "If David's heard what we've heard, he'll know Ruby's not in the library. Maybe _he's_ found her." She thumbed in her password, muddled it, then tried again.

"Granny's with him," Rumple said. "If King George's men won't recognize Prince Charming's authority, they'll certainly recognize hers."

Belle gave a nervous laugh as she scrolled through her contacts. _That's funny 'cause it's true_.

"They're Ruby's best hope," he finished.

Belle glanced at him sidelong. "Plus her enchanted scarf." She saw Rumple slant his gaze away from her as he did when avoiding a compliment. "Hmm," she murmured and pressed her phone to her ear. One ring and David's pre-recorded message started playing. Shaking her head, she said, "I'll try Granny—"

Her shoe caught a crack in the cement, and she stumbled. Her phone flew from her hand, skittering down the sidewalk. She made a dash for it, catching it just before it bounced into the gutter. By the time she looked up, Rumple had caught up with her and was pointing a couple of blocks down the main street.

Belle gasped. Two dozen vigilantes brandished torches and makeshift weapons at the gate to a storage lot. If Ruby was cornered, she'd have no route of escape.

"I can handle those bullies," Rumple said softly. "But it will require me attacking them with magic."

Belle noted one of the hooligans flaunting a pitchfork in the air. She stood up, coming shoulder to shoulder with Rumple. "To defend Ruby against _them_—absolutely. Just don't harm anyone."

"Nothing_ permanent_. I promise." He raised his hand.

"Wait!" Ahead she saw a shadowy shape darting in and out of the unlit doorways of shops. "Is that—?"

"Hey!" Rumple called out. "Show yourself." He began hobbling forward.

Belle broke into a run, leaving Rumple behind. When her pounding feet had brought her within a few yards, the stranger jumped out—facing her just long enough for her to recognize him.

_King George_. She knew him both as a disagreeable guest at her father's castle and a grouchy patron at the diner. He was in flight. That could only mean one thing: he'd been deposed again.

Belle raised two fists in the air. "Yes!"

The old man's patrician features went rigid with hatred. Then he took off loping across the street.

Up the block, Belle saw David and Ruby—human Ruby draped in her old world red riding hood—helping someone to their feet. _Granny. _They exchanged some words. Then David and Ruby raced to a parked police cruiser, hopped in, and sped off.

Belle looked back over her shoulder. Rumple gestured to her to keep going. She hurried on.

When Granny saw her, the old lady broke into a grin. "A friendly face!"

Hugging her, Belle could feel the poor woman trembling. She'd been through a lot. Belle patted her back, soothing her. Then she felt Granny stiffen.

"What's _he_ doing here?"

Belle pulled back. Turning, she saw Rumple leaning on the crutch a few feet away, Ruby's scarf still tucked up under his arm. At Granny's words, his lips thinned while his eyes widened in challenge.

Granny strutted forward, hands on her hips. "Come to see the wolf run to ground?"

The corners of Rumple's mouth twitched. "You have it, dearie. That's _exactly_ why I came."

"Well, prepare to be disappointed." Granny jutted her chin out as if she'd delivered a serious jab.

Belle saw Rumple lock eyes with Granny. Then he favored her with one of his teasing, flirtatious smiles. "Why? Did I miss all the _fun_?"

Belle grabbed Granny's arm before she could lunge. "Stop! Please! You don't understand. Rumple was here to help."

"No matter." Ignoring Granny, he limped forward and handed Belle the scarf. "Could you return this to your friend?"

Belle clutched it to her chest. "Oh, Rumple. If you would just explain—"

"Why did you have my Ruby's scarf?" Granny's tone remained belligerent.

"No particular reason." The lines in Rumple's face seemed deeply etched. "She mistakenly left it in my shop."

When Rumple turned his head to gaze at Belle, she saw his sardonic defenses melt. His smile grew gentle and his brown eyes took on the faraway look of final farewells. "You're brave in ways I've never been, my dear. Nothing anybody does will ever take that from you. I couldn't. Neither can anyone else." He took a step back. "Goodbye, Belle." Pivoting on the crutch, he limped away.

Belle called out, "Wait."

Rumple lifted his free hand and fluttered his fingers. "Goodbye," he repeated. He didn't even turn around.

* * *

**Hi**! Register with FanFiction . Net to be able to receive e-mails when stories you're following are updated (I mean, you've read this far...) and exchange PM's and all that kind of stuff. But whether or not you want to do that, you can still leave a review! Thanks.

**Author's Note**: The scene between Belle and Ruby includes some actual dialogue from their scene in "Child of the Moon" but with how I imagine Belle would react to being chained up yet again.


	8. I'll Tell You Anything

_**Chapter 8**_

**I'll Tell You Anything**

**Mr. Gold/Rumplestiltskin**: Then there's one simple question for you to ponder (_The Doctor_).

_Curly's still not grasping twenty-one questions_. Emma gave the Lost Boy a playful punch on the arm. "Come on, kid. How can you answer _yes_ the object you're thinking of is a vegetable after answering _yes _it's an animal?"

Freebird started bouncing up and down, making the log Emma shared with him wobble. "I know, I know! Banana fish!"

Emma was about to make a goofy cross-eyed face in honor of the silly answer. Then she saw Curly smack his own forehead. "I made it too easy."

"Mmm, banana fish." Rock patted his stomach, his eyes wistful. "I wish we had some right now."

Emma started laughing. "Oh, _banana_ _fish_ is a _real_ thing. Neverland, right?"

"Neverland has _everything_!" Nibs gave her a hug. "Wait 'til you see it. Now that Peter's here…"

Emma hugged Nibs back before he could start gushing on about his favorite subject. Then she peered over his shoulder to observe her mother and Neal on the far side of the campfire. In the wavering light, she could see them huddling, intent on catching each other's words. _What're they doing? Exchanging life stories?_

"I'm the very best at roasting banana fish," Slightly announced. "I remember how Mummy used to do it."

_Oh, no. Not again_. Somehow, no orderly activity could stand up to one of Slightly's boasts. Emma suspected he made them because he enjoyed the free-for-alls they started. Fingers arched and primed for tickling, the cherub launched himself at the larger boy. The two grappled in the ashy dirt beside the campfire, gasping and giggling. Nibs slid off Emma's lap to join the fray. Curly, Rock, and Freebird piled on.

Slanting her legs outside the line of scrimmage, Emma stole another glance at Neal. How many years had he lived this strange, adult-less life before opting to grow up on earth? If he had tried to describe this to her, she'd have thought him crazy. Yet this absurd fact—_my boyfriend was Peter Pan_—explained his odd mixture of wisdom and naiveté. With innumerable years of leading troops in Neverland but only a scant five years of experience with twentieth century earth, no wonder he'd supported himself jacking cars and shoplifting. His excuse for a life of crime had been better than hers.

Emma raised her chin. _But that doesn't excuse Neal running out on me. Even the smallest child knows that's wrong._

Then above the noise of the wrestling boys, crackling fire, and ever-present swamp creature croaks, whistles, and hoots, Emma heard a sob. She sprang to her feet. Glancing across the campfire, she saw her mother and Neal jump up, too.

_Poor Aurora_. Emma headed away from the campfire toward the lean-tos nestled against the rocks. Mulan would reach her first, but sometimes it took all three of the princess's traveling companions to yank her back to the land of the awake. Mary-Margaret had tried to explain the strange netherworld of sleeping curses to her. Though Emma couldn't quite picture it, she understood it was more terrifying than the worst nightmare one had ever had.

Aurora whimpered louder. Emma strode faster.

Soon her mother was next to her. "This sounds like a bad one."

Neal came up on Mary-Margaret's other side, carrying one of the Lost Boys' cattail-dipped-in-rabbit-fat torches. _At least he knows enough not to try to walk beside me._

From Aurora's lean-to, she heard Mulan's commanding "Wake up!" and a loud slap. Sometimes that was the only thing that worked.

Then she heard Aurora murmuring, "Stop... Let me sleep... I need to hear... he's saying something..."

Stooping down, Emma wiggled into the lean-to. Her mother wedged herself by Mulan on the other side. Neal stopped in the entrance. In the glow of the burning cattail, Emma could see that the princess looked exasperated.

"The boy I told you about? On the other side of the flames? Tonight he wore a magical talisman that held back the fire. We were just about to introduce ourselves, when I was rudely awakened. At the last instant, he called out _Henry_."

_Henry? No._ "My son was under a sleeping curse for less than a day. He can't be in that horrible place." Emma felt sick just thinking about it. Glancing at Neal, she saw distress lining his forehead, too.

Her mother's reaction was shockingly different. "Emma! If that's _our_ Henry and Aurora and he can talk, they can relay messages. It would be like calling home!"

The princess yawned. "Let me fall back to sleep so I can find out."

* * *

When Pinocchio walked into the police station to give his statements the next morning, he saw Mr. Gold perched awkwardly on an uncomfortable-looking folding chair in the hallway beside the soda machine. His back was hunched and his head was bowed. The cane he was restlessly passing from hand to hand was ebony like the one destroyed in the accident, but the wood was scratched and the brass head was dinged. Apparently, it had seen a lot of action.

"At least you dug up a replacement for that silly crutch," Pinocchio said.

Mr. Gold shrugged but didn't look up. "I retired this eight months ago. Luckily, I'm a hoarder."

Pinocchio glanced at the sign on the door across the hall—_104 Evidence_. This is where he'd been asked to come, but the venetian blinds were slanted shut. _Who else is Sheriff Nolan interviewing? How long do I have to wait? _He needed to check his flight to Singapore.

Sighing, Pinocchio plopped down on the other metal chair and stretched out his legs. When Mr. Gold finally twisted his head to glance at him, his eyes widened. In response, Pinocchio cocked an eyebrow and lightly touched the swollen flesh over his cheekbone and the bump on his forehead.

Mr. Gold winced. "You really _did_ defend the jail against the mob, didn't you?"

"Yes. Wish I'd known Ruby wasn't in it."

Mr. Gold chuckled softly. "I'd have thought _you_ of all people would have been able to spot a bald-faced deception like Charming's."

Pinocchio rolled his eyes. _I'm never going to live down the lying thing, am I? _"Well, I'd have thought _you_ of all people would know everyone believes what they want to believe."

"Touché." Mr. Gold raised one hand off his cane. "If you'd like, I can wave those cuts and bruises away…"

"After the sheriff snaps his photos, that'd be great. If I go to the airport looking like this, security will search my carry-ons for sure."

"Or…" Mr. Gold tipped his head to one side. "Geppetto left a message my music box is ready. If you drop it by my shop around one, that's when Ruby's bringing me fish and chips from the diner. She might be interested in how you singlehandedly delayed those hooligans long enough for Charming and Granny to fetch her cloak."

"Wow. That's even better." _Fantastic, in fact. _His flight to Singapore wasn't for four days. Why let them go to waste? Now that King George had confessed to killing Billy, he had no reason not to hang out with the big bad wolf girl. Bemused, Pinocchio stared at Mr. Gold. "And thanks for calling Dad. I wouldn't have expected it after what you went through last night."

Mr. Gold wrinkled his forehead. "On the contrary. After everything that happened, chatting with your father was a relief. He—"

The door to the evidence-slash-interrogation room opened. Pinocchio looked up to see Sheriff Nolan stepping back to let a short, pudgy man in a startlingly red knit cap bump his way past. Suddenly, the stranger froze, his eyes anxious. Glancing sidelong, Pinocchio saw an expression of grim recognition on Mr. Gold's face.

"Good morning, Mr. Smee." Mr. Gold's voice was soft but his tone was menacing.

_Mr. Smee? The pirate? _Switching his gaze back, Pinocchio saw the nervous little man's Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. Then he scooted down the hallway.

As soon as the street door slammed, Pinocchio gave a low whistle. "What's _he_ doing _here_? Shouldn't Smee be in Neverland losing duels to Lost Boys?" He couldn't wait to text Neal. Where was that old so-and-so, anyway? Maybe the chance to confront one of Hook's crew would finally get him to Storybrooke.

"Before Neverland, Mr. Smee lived in the Enchanted Forest." Planting his cane in front of him, Mr. Gold pushed himself to his feet. Automatically, Pinocchio reached out to steady him and the wizard shot him a crooked smile. Then he trained his eyes on the sheriff. "But this concerns more _recent_ history."

"It's not what you think," Sheriff Nolan said quickly. "Smee came in as a concerned citizen. He witnessed the accident."

"Did he, now." Mr. Gold leaned on his cane.

Pinocchio heard mockery in Mr. Gold's tone. He saw Sheriff Nolan glare at him, then smile. "I'm taking August's statement first. Please wait your turn."

Feeling awkward, Pinocchio muttered, "He's been here longer."

"No matter," Mr. Gold said, slowly lowering himself to the chair. "I have a call to make."

* * *

Emma placed her boots and socks on the flattest of the rocks ringing the spring-fed pond Mary-Margaret had chosen for bathing. On tiptoes, she checked over the top of the ferns for underage voyeurs. _All clear_. She slipped her black tank top and chinos off but decided to keep her underwear. Mulan and Aurora were foot patrolling, but what if the Lost Boys' curiosity sent them aloft? If she had become a Mom figure as she suspected, she didn't want them traumatized.

Quickly, Emma stepped into the chilly water and crouched down to her armpits. Her mother slid in naked beside her and handed her a grayish-green cube.

"Soap," Mary-Margaret said. "Peter, uh, Neal made it this morning from rabbit fat, pumpkin seeds, campfire ash, and pine needles."

_That doesn't sound very clean_. Emma gave it a sniff. "Smells okay." She ran the bar up and down her damp arms. The smooth texture felt luxurious on her skin. "Neal _made_ this?"

"Back on earth, he found the recipe on the Internet. The pine makes it disinfectant, and the pumpkin seed oil helps it lather. He forwarded the instructions via Tinkerbelle a few weeks ago but no one had tried making it yet."

Emma smiled and stretched a leg out of the water. "Boys."

Mary-Margaret nodded, spreading soap bubbles across her face. "Neal's been looking out for them the best he could."

"Long distance?" Emma frowned at her cracked and dirty toenails.

"That's the only way available to him. Neal told me that like most grownups, he couldn't form a happy thought without diluting it with doubts and regrets. Without pure joy, one can't fly."

Emma rinsed off her foot and inspected it. _Better_. "How come he could fly two evenings ago?"

"Tinkerbelle told him you were here. And she told him about his son." Mary-Margaret paused. "His happy thoughts were you and Henry."

"Oh, really?" Emma dunked her mother's head under water.

Mary-Margaret burst the surface, spluttering. She took a swipe at her daughter. Emma tried to snatch her wrist, but toppled backwards. The cold, soapy water closed over her face. Rolling over, she arched her head out of the pond.

"Look!" Mary-Margaret said. "The soap floats."

Emma grabbed for the bobbing bar, needing two tries to catch it. "I know what you're going to say. If Neal is happy, he can fly us home. But I'm not the one to help him. He had his chance."

"What about Henry? Doesn't he deserve to know his father?"

Emma took a deep breath and immersed herself. _Henry will be crazy excited when he learns his dad is Peter Pan_. Popping up, she said, "No custody. But visits? Sure. We can discuss it."

Mary-Margaret splashed like a child. "Charming, here I come!"

* * *

Neal commanded the largest stone in the campground with all twelve Lost Boys sitting cross-legged before him. Back in Neverland, they'd played this game—him pretending to be a grownup and his crew pretending to be the sort of boys that cared. This morning, he hoped to occupy them long enough to avoid their getting an eyeful of the bathing beauties—not that he'd have minded one himself. _Ah, Emma._

"I don't hear splashing," Tootles said. "Does that mean they're done?"

"Did I give you permission to speak?" Neal said. "First Twin, how will we know the women are done?"

"When all four come back with wet hair."

Neal nodded solemnly. "Very good. Top of the class. Gold star."

Second Twin raised his hand. Neal counted to ten before pointing to him.

"Peter, if you really _are_ a grownup, then you can't _pretend_ to be a grownup, can you?"

Neal leaned forward with his best Toshiro Mifune samurai glower. "Do I _look_ like a grownup?"

Second Twin frowned. "Yes."

"But does _looking_ like a grownup _make_ me a grownup? How can we know for sure?"

Wriggling all over, little Alfie shot up his hand. Without waiting for Neal to acknowledge him, he shouted, "Grownups spoil everything!"

"That's right," Neal said. "Altogether now: _Grownups spoil everything!"_ As he led his crew through a full twelve renditions of the cheer, he thought to himself, _we do, we do_.

* * *

Charming recorded August's statements on both the hit-and-run and the slugfest in front of the police station. Emma would be proud of how her dear old dad was catching on to this detective stuff. Now he needed photos of August's injuries for evidence.

"The camera's set up in the squad room," he said.

_Not that the Storybrooke Police will ever need a squad_, Charming thought as he stood, edged past the table and out the door of the cramped evidence storage room. In the Enchanted Forest, arrests had required superior numbers or a really good freezing spell. In this world, even evil wizards accepted the authority of the badge.

Seeing the scowl on Rumplestiltskin's face as he passed him in the hall gave Charming some measure of satisfaction. _Try waiting twenty-nine years to spend a night with your wife only to have some ass of a wizard sidetrack her with a wraith. I'll show you frustrated._

In Storybrooke only King George didn't accept his say-so—but that's what jail cells were for. Now the ex-monarch murderer occupied one, awaiting a decision on what would be done with him.

Over his shoulder, Charming said, "Don't mind King George. He's all snarl, no teeth." Looking back, he saw August wasn't following him. Of all the dumb things he could have done, he'd stopped to talk to Rumplestiltskin.

"No, really," August was saying. "You _have_ to come to my party."

_What's wrong with that guy? Doesn't he know nobody ever invites Rumplestiltskin?_ Shaking his head, Charming turned around and walked back down the hall. Stopping, he locked eyes with August, hoping to warn him without words. Instead, the twit grinned at him.

"Tell Mr. Gold his presence is mandatory," August said. "If it weren't for his hocus pocus, I wouldn't be having a bon voyage at all."

Charming saw the wizard wave a hand in one of his typical what-do-you-expect-I-can-do-anything gestures. With growing unease, he watched August lean down until he was right in the wizard's face. "My plan is to get you drunk so you'll spill all your secrets."

Alarmed at August's words, Charming darted a glance at Rumplestiltskin. The wizard's faint smile looked ominous. "If you knew any more of my secrets, I'd have to kill you."

August burst out laughing. Then he winked at Charming. "It's funny 'cause it's true."

Charming swallowed hard and grabbed August's arm. "Please. Let's take those pictures." But the idiot kept gazing at Rumplestiltskin.

The wizard tapped his cane on the floor. Charming wondered if perhaps it was actually a magical staff that could summon demons or maybe another wraith.

But instead of wielding magic, Rumplestiltskin laid the cane across his lap. "I'll check my calendar."

* * *

As soon as Acting Sheriff Charming and Pinocchio went around the corner into the squad room, Mr. Gold redialed the _Game of Thorns_. This time Moe picked up.

"Game of Thorns. The right floral arrangement for any celebration." The voice was bright and chipper, the Backlands accent achingly reminiscent of Belle's. A pity it was her arrogant, son-of-a-bitch father.

"Do your floral arrangements include funeral wreathes? Despite your best efforts last night, I won't be needing one."

Dead silence. Then, "Is this… Rumplestiltskin?"

Mr. Gold gripped the head of his cane. Like the time they'd clashed in his search for Belle, Moe French had assumed the airs of Sir Maurice—the aristocrat who'd haughtily called him _beast_ yet relinquished his daughter to him anyway. "Do I hear surprise?"

"No, shock. Why on earth would you call—"

"To let you know your plan to have Mr. Smee run me over failed. I'm perfectly fine. Not a scratch on me." Mr. Gold paused. "I was thrown clear."

Just as quickly as he'd become Sir Maurice, Moe reverted to a fuming, spluttering working stiff. "I don't know _what_ you're ranting about, you bat-shit mental little man. Smee's been home two days puking his guts out with the flu. If I ever hear a car's run you down, I'll throw a party. Until then, I'm happy knowing Belle's left you, you twisted little—"

Mr. Gold lowered the phone to his lap. He hated acknowledging it, but the self-righteousness sounded genuine. He rubbed the bridge of his nose feeling like a fool. He'd been correct about Smee. The man had taken off sick to do his dirty deed. But once again, he'd been woefully wrong about Belle's father.

When he brought his cell back to his ear, Moe was still seething. "I believe you," Mr. Gold muttered and ended the call.

* * *

Charming gestured for August to lift his jeans leg higher so he could get a good photo of the scrape on his knee.

Behind him, he could hear King George pacing his cell. The jail was only meant to hold prisoners overnight, but the county lockup was on the other side of the Storybrooke border. At the town hall meeting, they'd decide what to do with him. _So long as it's not up to me._

"Sheepherder, my captain slammed wooden boy against the wall last night. His backside is likely sporting some impressive bruises—or splinters."

Charming ignored King George. The set of pictures he was taking would stand up in court without a disgraced monarch-slash-district-attorney advising him. He was having less luck imparting a word-to-the-wise to August.

Finally, Charming said, "You don't know Rumplestiltskin like I do—"

King George snorted. "Hah. You don't know him like _I_ do. After my wonderful James died, he said my son could still slay a dragon for King Midas. _My son_. Instead, he saddles me with this look-alike ingrate who's not worth a hair on my son's head."

Charming bit his lip. That's why Rumplestiltskin had chosen his twin for King George to adopt. In case of an accident, he could trot out a spare. Looking up from the digital camera with his warmest smile, he told August, "Don't mind King George." Then he added, "I _did_ slay the dragon."

August turned around—just like the king had suggested. Pulling up his leather jacket and shirt, he displayed a nasty abrasion. "Well, neither of you know Mr. Gold like _I_ do. He changed me from marionette to human once and for all. Of course, I'm grateful. I can't say it any plainer."

"But at what price, wooden boy?" King George asked. "He tricked _me_ into betraying my family's patron fairy godmother. He played upon my desperation."

Though he hated agreeing with the king, Charming nodded. "Whether he's Rumplestiltskin or Mr. Gold, there's _always_ a price." How could August not know that? He snapped a picture.

The fool shook his head. "No price. Not really. Mr. Gold helped me because Jiminy asked him and because he likes my dad. But I can't deny he got a kick out of annoying the Blue Fairy."

Charming held out his hands. "See what I mean? What kind of creature doesn't like fairies?" _The Dark One, that's what kind._

"He made _my_ family's fairy godmother disappear," King George said.

August narrowed his eyes. "Are we done?" Without waiting for a response, he tucked his jeans cuff back into his scuffed boot and started across the squad room. "I'll be out of the country for a few weeks. You have my card if you need to contact me."

"Hey, just a—" Charming started after him, hoping to get in one more argument. By the time he entered the hallway, August was already huddled with Rumplestiltskin.

"One?" August asked.

"A little earlier," Rumplestiltskin replied.

"Thanks."

Charming saw Rumplestiltskin twist his head to watch August continue down the hall. _Pointedly ignoring me_, he thought.

Reaching the corner, August looked back at Rumplestiltskin. "Text me if you decide to come to my party. I'll need to stock up on firstborn baby croquettes."

Rumplestiltskin didn't reply, but Charming heard him chuckle. _Could he be any more evil? _

* * *

Smee had to hand it to the rusty biscuit tin—or at least the sinister mastermind that spoke through it. Its info was legit. No supernatural hazards guarded the backdoor to Mr. Gold's mansion—only a pin-and-tumbler lock and a deadbolt. In under three minutes, Smee's tension wrench, c-rake, and short hook had breached them both.

Of course, the voice behind the tin should recognize that partnering with Smee had been smart, too. Hadn't he been right all along that Mr. Gold was still the Dark One? His skin, eyes, and nails might not be worthy of the name crocodile, but he fairly reeked of black magic. That beauty of a Pontiac Streamliner Wagon had verified the attribute Smee envied most—invincibility. _Only the Dark One has life eternal._

That is, unless Smee could find the mystical dagger the tin box said granted the Dark One his power. Smee wondered how much time he had to scurry and scavenge around the wizard's ridiculously large Victorian undisturbed. The first time he'd been here, he'd helped Moe help himself to antique knickknacks from the parlor. The second time, he'd spent an anxious hour strung up in the basement, spinning lies to the Dark One about the whereabouts of Captain Hook.

Well, this time Smee was in charge. He knew how to search for a hard-to-find object without getting caught. When he left, even the Dark One wouldn't guess he'd been here.

* * *

Inside Room 104, Mr. Gold took one look at the caster wheels on the bottom of the chair Charming expected him to use and sighed. With nothing to brace the rollers, the risk of a pratfall was too great. He'd learned long ago with Cora that one could never afford to look weak. Centering his cane in front of him for stability, he smiled.

"You prefer standing?" Charming asked.

"I wouldn't want to get too comfortable," Mr. Gold replied.

Charming rocked his chair back on two legs. "August likes to live close to the edge, doesn't he—talking to you that way."

"You mean… the quip? August wasn't directing it at me. He meant it for the sort of fool who believes a silly tale told to scare children. Someone like…" Mr. Gold raised his eyebrows, but Charming missed the point.

"As long as you didn't take it as an insult."

Mr. Gold shook his head. "I know you think I'm evil. I can live with that. But that you think I'm _petty_—that's really too much."

"Petty?"

"Think about it. Even if August _had_ meant to insult me, what then? Have I_ ever—_either here or in the Enchanted Forest—been known to take anyone to task over an _insult_? Is _that_ my reputation? If I had retaliated every time someone verbally abused me since the curse broke, Storybrooke would be crawling with snails instead of people—and you would have been the first to spread your slime around."

Charming frowned. "Show respect for the badge."

"Or you'll what? Throw me into the cell next to King George… for insulting you?" Mr. Gold felt a twinge in his bad leg. He leaned forward on his cane to shift the weight. "I take deals people make very seriously. They can talk about me as they like."

Charming clicked on the tape recorder. "So… who do you think got tired of talk and decided to run you down?"

_Must I do your job for you?_ "Mr. Smee was the driver. That much is obvious."

Charming cocked his head. "But he came forward—"

"—to insinuate himself into your investigation." Mr. Gold couldn't keep impatience from his voice. "That's _well known_ criminal behavior, dearie. You have no education or experience—actual or implanted—to qualify you for this job, but at least watch a television cop show once in awhile. You might get some hints."

"A perpetrator insinuating himself into an investigation—that's common?" Charming widened his blue eyes.

"Elementary, in fact."

"Like a lawyer offering free services to keep tabs on a murder investigation?"

Mr. Gold smiled. _Touché for Charming._ "No. That's more likely a good-hearted soul helping an innocent who's been accused and abandoned by those she trusted most." When Charming's mouth twitched, Mr. Gold knew his jab had struck home. "But Mr. Smee's not the type to stage an accident and keep tabs on it for personal reasons. Someone's paying him."

Charming sighed. "You think Moe French—"

"No," Mr. Gold broke in. He had to hurry this along. His leg was starting to hurt.

"No?" Charming folded his arms. "While I was interviewing August, Moe _magically_ stopped being a suspect?"

"Yes." Mr. Gold gritted his teeth against a muscle spasm. He couldn't stand like this much longer. "As far as identifying others who bear me ill will, do your job. If you come across anyone who's angry the magic they begged for worked too well or who resents having been held to a deal they asked to make, tell them I'm open to renegotiation. I can't resolve their dissatisfactions if I'm dead."

With a nod, Mr. Gold turned toward the door, his bad leg throbbing.

"Hey," Charming said. "I'm not done. If you prefer, I'll get a warrant to search your business records for likely suspects."

His back to Charming, Mr. Gold clenched his teeth. _Damn you_. He turned around with a beatific smile. "If this interview is going to drag on, I'd appreciate some coffee. I'm sure you made a pot in Emma's office this morning." When Charming drummed his fingers on the table, Mr. Gold added, "Sharing coffee with a witness to put them at ease—that's—'

"—a well-known investigative technique?"

"—something Emma would have done."

Charming switched off the recorder and stood. "Okay. You got me. I wouldn't mind another cup myself."

Mr. Gold remained perfectly still except for the trembling in his bad leg. The instant the door clicked shut behind Charming, he nudged the rolling chair against a metal evidence locker. He about-faced, then shuffled backwards until his legs bumped the seat. One hand gripping his cane, he stretched the other down until it lay flat on the cushion. He extended his bad leg, trusting his weight to the other. _All right, steady.._. Slowly, he lowered himself. Hearing the acting sheriff in the hall, he scooted his chair up to the table. Then he nestled his cane in the crook of his arm and laced his fingers.

Charming called out, "My hands are full. Could you open the door?"

Mr. Gold sucked air through his teeth. _Damn you, Charming_. "I can't. My leg is…"

Silence. Then the knob twisted. A moment later, Charming shouldered the door wide and plunked Mr. Gold's paper cup in front of him. Coffee sloshed over the side. Then he closed the door and took a sip from his porcelain mug.

"You fixed Dr. Whale's arm. Why don't you—"

"Fix my leg?" Mr. Gold smiled brightly. "I'd miss all the sympathy it gets me."

* * *

"Health inspector," Emma announced, standing in front of the pair of rocks Slightly called the door to his kitchen. According to Mary-Margaret, Neal had recommended turning their appraisal of the Lost Boys' food stores into a playing-at-grownups game. She could see Slightly sniggering behind a pyramid of pumpkins.

"Open up," Mary-Margaret added, brandishing a makeshift broom, "or you're under arrest."

The boy cook hopped up, scampered over, and mimed opening a door.

"Now run along," Emma said, marching past him as stiffly as a tin soldier. "This is a super-secret-surprise inspection."

Smirking, Slightly retreated. When Emma bent over to pick up rotting pumpkin rind, she saw him spying from behind an elderberry shrub. _Good._ They needed to make their task look like a game he'd want to play in the future.

Mary-Margaret began sweeping. "Neal said that as far as he can figure, Neverland is free of pathogens and vermin. No bacteria, viruses, germs. No flies, maggots, rats. In Neverland, food never ever goes bad."

Emma followed her nose to a basket, lifted the lid, and felt her stomach heave. The strips of possibly rabbit meat inside crawled with larvae. "It goes bad here."

"Neal said—"

"Enough, already. I get it." Emma slammed down the lid and faced her mother. "Peter Pan has grown up. He's trying to be responsible. Tonight before I start watch duty, I'll discuss Henry with him. Stop bringing it up."

Mary-Margaret chewed her lip. "I forgot to tell you. Neal's father is in Storybrooke. They're… estranged."

_Oh, no. In-laws. _"So thoughts of daddy aren't pure joy?"

"That's right." Mary-Margaret looked relieved at Emma's quick assessment. "If we have any hope of helping Neal fly, it's best to avoid talking about his father until we're home. If he mentions him, steer the conversation away. Interrupt him if you have to."

"Neal's dad is taboo. Got it." Emma hoisted the basket of slop. The only thing it was good for now was dumping down a pit of lightning sand.

* * *

Charming watched Rumplestiltskin shift in his chair. _What's he hiding? _At last the wizard said, "That's all I recall about the accident. If there's nothing else—"

_Time for my real questions_, Charming thought and switched off the recorder. "Why weren't you injured?"

Rumplestiltskin stared at him a moment. "Sorry to disappoint you, Acting Sheriff, but apparently I was thrown clear."

"Seriously?" Charming laughed. "I don't think _thrown clear _means what you think it means. Sure it's better to be thrown over the top of a vehicle than to be dragged under its wheels. But that's not the same as walking away without a scratch, which is what you did."

"I was… lucky."

"Both Mr. Smee and August described you as hitting the bumper, the windshield, the back of the car, and the pavement. Your clothing was torn up, your cane was cracked, but you're not even bruised. How come?"

Rumplestiltskin pressed his lips together. Then he pressed himself back against his chair as if distancing himself from the question altogether. Finally he gave a tight little shrug. "Why do _you_ think I'm unharmed?"

"For the same reason I couldn't harm you in our swordfight way back when. The Dark One _can't_ be harmed."

Rumplestiltskin raised his eyebrows. "Do I _look_ like the Dark One?"

"Does Mother Superior look like a fairy? But she's regaining more and more fairy powers every day. And the last time we met, her hair had a blue tinge." Charming lifted his chin. "Just because _you_ don't look like the Dark One, doesn't mean you won't soon. Don't pretend you wouldn't be happy to return to your natural state."

Every muscle in Rumplestiltskin's face went rigid. Between clenched teeth, he repeated, "_My natural state?_"

Charming stared at him. _What did I say wrong?_

"_This_ is my natural state, dearie." Rumplestiltskin rapped his cane on the floor. "Bum leg and all. The being you knew in the Enchanted Forest was a man under a curse. That's common knowledge. How can you be so ignorant?"

"Common knowledge?" Charming shook his head. "The first time I met you, I referred to you as a man. Afterwards, my mother explained you were something else altogether."

So softly Charming almost missed it, Rumplestiltskin whispered, "Imp, beast, monster." Nodding, he picked up his coffee. "You're right. I did guard that secret. In the Enchanted Forest, when people heard _curse_, their first thought was how to break it—and their motives were rarely benevolent. If I'd lost my powers then, well..." Setting the cup back down, he smiled. Then he flourished his hand in a gesture eerily reminiscent of the Dark One he was denying. "Now that I've broken it myself, I've mentioned it to one or two people in Storybrooke. I'd assumed they'd gossiped."

_Broken it?_ "You've thrown quite a bit of magic around lately. If it was the curse that granted you powers, then it's very much intact."

"Your analysis is uninformed." Rumplestiltskin's smile seemed pleasant, but irritation lined his forehead. "I don't have _powers_ in that sense at all anymore—only knowledge due to long years of study and practice. The real power is in Storybrooke. If you have any complaints, look to yourself, Snow, and Emma. You created the magic. I merely harness it."

Charming ran his eyes across Rumplestiltskin's face. If only he had Emma's skill at spotting a lie. "I wish you'd had the decency to ask us before dumping this purple passion potion of yours down the well. If it really was my family's _true love_, why did it make such an evil-looking fog?"

"Dr. Whale's not complaining. Neither are Pinocchio or Ruby. And tell me, how was Henry's sleep last night?"

_Excellent_. In fact, the wizard's talisman had provided so much control that the sleeping curse netherworld had gone from terrifying to intriguing. At breakfast, Henry had said he was even about to make a friend. "Better," Charming said.

Rumplestiltskin exhaled slowly. "Well, then. How can you call that evil?"

_Talk about selective memory. _Charming folded his arms. "So that wraith—it was a _true love_ wraith?"

Rumplestiltskin grimaced. After a moment, he said, "The wraith was… _dark_ magic. I'll grant you that. But my intention in calling upon it was justice—summary justice, mustered in the heat of the moment, exacted by a biased party and, therefore, _flawed_, but as of now, the only justice Regina has faced."

Charming leaned back. "So… what did she do to you?" He'd heard everybody else's story in town. Now he'd hear the wizard's too.

"To me?" Rumplestiltskin waved a hand as if that was of no consequence. Then he leaned forward. "Did you ever wonder how a young woman as intelligent, interesting, and appealing as Belle could be unknown in Storybrooke until the day the curse broke?"

Charming raised his shoulders. "I'd assumed _you'd_ kept her captive somewhere."

Rumplestiltskin blinked several times. "You just managed to say something that goes beyond insult." He took a deep breath. "In fact, I'm having a vision of you sliding along an ivy leaf right now."

The wizard's abnormally large eyes stared at him so intently, Charming began to feel uncomfortable. He held up his hands in truce. "Obviously, I was wrong. But would killing Regina be justice for locking someone up? Even if she'd locked that person up for a really long time?"

"The wraith wouldn't have _killed_ her—only imprisoned her soul. After thirty years had passed—the length of time she held Belle captive—her soul could have been returned. That is, if anyone had cared enough to tuck Regina's body away for safekeeping." His eyelids flickered. "If what I'd intended had occurred, I would take full responsibility. But it's not my fault Emma and Snow White chose to throw themselves between the wraith and its prey."

Charming knew better than to say it aloud, but at this moment, the being on the far side of the table was the Dark One even if its form was human.

"Nevertheless," Rumplestiltskin continued, "I know what magic will bring them back to Storybrooke."

* * *

**Hello!** Please review!


	9. A Deal You Want to Make

_**Chapter 9**_

**A Deal You Want to Make**

**Mr. Gold/Rumplestiltskin**: You see, contracts—deals—well, they're the very foundation of all civilized existence (_The Price of Gold_).

Charming repeated Rumplestiltskin's words to himself: _I know what magic will bring them back to Storybrooke_. Though he hated giving the wizard the satisfaction, he grinned. And kudos to Belle for recognizing the magic books when she'd come across them boxed up in the library attic.

"So," Charming said, "_what_ magic will get Snow and Emma home?"

"Why, true love potion, of course. _That's_ what I need to create a portal. One vial equals a cartload of fairy dust."

"Like the one you dumped down the well? As simple as that?" _Why didn't you come up with this sooner?_

Rumplestiltskin leaned back in his chair, clearly in his element. "The potion that brought magic to Storybrooke was complex, of course. The arrow you took for Snow, the bite of the cursed apple she took for you, your secreting the vial inside Dragon Maleficent, Emma's slaying the dragon to take it back—all of those acts played a part in increasing the potion's power."

Charming's grin faded. "Emma and I faced the dragon in deals we made with you, sure. But you're making it sound like _everything_ we did was part of your plan."

Tilting his head, Rumplestiltskin smiled. "Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger, dearie. Those acts intensified your love. If the potion benefited, you did as well."

_Damn, you're a manipulative son-of-a-bitch_. "I think I can speak for my wife and daughter when I say nobody wants to risk their life just to _benefit_ a potion."

"Not necessary." Rumplestiltskin waved his hand. "Instead of one vial of super-powerful—as you so poetically put it—_purple passion potion_, I'll make do with three of lesser strength. The only sacrifices required will be single strands of hair."

_That simple! _Charming drew a deep breath. _Time to change the sheets. Snow's coming home. _Reaching up to pull out some hairs, he said, "My wife's I can get from her brush."

Rumplestiltskin shook his index finger. "Not your hair. Nor Snow's. True love potion can't be mass produced. Rather than a formula, it's more like a test. If the result is positive, it's potent. But repeating the test is tantamount to doubting the previous result, which renders _it_ useless."

"Meaning?"

"If I evaluate yours and Snow's hairs a second time, the magic now in Storybrooke would vanish—and you wouldn't want that."

"Why not?" To Charming, revoking Rumplestiltskin's ability to throw fireballs sounded attractive.

"Because the only way I know to link the Enchanted Forest to a world without magic is… unpleasant." The wizard returned a crooked smile. "Better to link magic to magic."

Charming shrugged. "Three vials?" He knew at least three couples in true love.

"Yes. One to repair the damage in Jefferson's hat, another to activate it, and a third to target the Enchanted Forest portal to the exact spot where Snow and Emma are."

_Jefferson's hat_. Charming's mind flashed a picture of King George tossing Snow's-and-Emma's-best-hope-of-return into a beach bonfire—the deposed monarch's last little _screw you_ before being arrested. Groaning, Charming clamped a hand over his eyes. When he lowered it, he saw Rumplestiltskin scowling.

"Don't tell me something happened to the Mad Hatter's _hat_?"

Charming picked up his coffee mug and took three rapid sips.

"Appalling." Rumplestiltskin shook his head. "One of the seven most remarkable magical objects to ever cross my path and you let something_ happen_ to it?" His stare said Charming was one of the seven most pitiful. "Is _nothing_ salvageable?"

Charming shook his head. Even the ashes had likely washed out to sea.

Dropping his chin to his chest, Rumplestiltskin gazed at his own hands. Charming watched the clock on the far wall.

After a full minute, the wizard spoke. "Nine vials. Four to create a portal on each end and one to target." He flicked his glance up at Charming. "Collect as many likely specimens as you can and bring them to my shop. Be careful to identify the source of each hair. I can't work the magic if I don't have the names."

_Do I know nine couples in the throes of true love_? Charming sighed. Maybe he should wait on the sheets. "Well, that's it, then."

Rumplestiltskin lifted his chin. "Not quite. I haven't told you my terms."

Charming couldn't believe his ears. He sat up tall to look down his nose at Rumplestiltskin. "Seriously? _Your_ wraith sends my family to another universe. But you won't help without a _deal_?" _Is that why you didn't solve this sooner, you calculating bastard? You were s__talling to jack up the price?_

Rumplestiltskin held up a hand. "Hear me out. I'm not asking for much. Your wild speculations about my lack of injury—keep them to yourself. If you put fear into people's heads that soon the Dark One will be roaming Storybrooke, they might decide to attack now. I don't fancy trying to outrun a mob hobbling with my cane."

The wizard's request was minor—which made it all the more suspicious. "What if I _agree_ that waiting until you're all-powerful wouldn't be wise?"

"And do what, dearie? Lock me in a dungeon without a trial again?" Rumplestiltskin grinned so broadly that the creases in his cheeks reminded Charming of a jack-o'-lantern. "Wouldn't that hinder my working my magic to retrieve your family?"

Of course, the wizard was right. But Charming wanted to drag this out to gauge his reaction. Leaning back, he folded his arms. "I'd have to consider what's best for the town. I'm the sheriff—acting sheriff—after all."

Rumplestiltskin fixed his uncanny brown eyes on him. "If you want what's best for Storybrooke, then leave such notions as preemptive law and order behind in the Enchanted Forest. In the state of Maine, you can't incarcerate someone based on a hypothesis. You have to respect people's rights—at least if you want people to respect the badge_._"

Charming stared right back. "So long as you do the same—respect people's rights."

Rumplestiltskin clapped a hand over his heart. "I do solemnly swear: no turning deal breakers into pigs—even temporarily. In Storybrooke I'll rely on small claims court."

_And it won't hurt if I keep an eye on you, too,_ Charming thought.

* * *

During his innumerable years of adventuring, Smee had acquired many hard-to-find objects. Each time, as early as possible, he'd profited from them—spending the money on once-in-a-lifetime pleasures… rare vintages, costly courtesans, pleasure cruises. As Smee trawled the vast Victorian mansion, he observed that the Dark One had acquired more precious and marvelous treasures than he ever had—and apparently had kept all of them.

Smee had picked through the plunder-packed basement and first two floors with no joy. Along the way, he'd nicked a few less-than-unique items he was sure wouldn't be missed—a handful of gold doubloons from an overflowing chest, a pearl choker from a lady's coat pocket, and a diamond cravat pin from a wardrobe floor. Now he was exploring the third floor with only the attic above him.

If the Dark One's lair held the dagger that could kill or enslave him, Smee would find it. And this time, the profit would be huge.

* * *

As Mr. Gold rode away from the sheriff's station in the back of an Avalon Car Services Cadillac, his mind replayed Charming's words: _The Dark One can't be harmed._ Until he'd faced the sheriff's questions about the accident, he'd blithely denied the obvious. Coming to Storybrooke hadn't broken his curse—only rendered it dormant. When he'd poured the vial of true love potion down the town well and brought magic to Storybrooke, he'd reawakened it.

_Just because you don't look like the Dark One, doesn't mean you won't soon_. That thought was chilling. Zoso had known the trick of concealing his Dark One characteristics to look like an ordinary man. In the quarter of a millennium Rumplestiltskin had held that title in the Enchanted Forest, he'd never accomplished it—even with Cora's ridicule as motivation. That's why the curse-suppressing magic of Belle's kiss had taken him by surprise. In Storybrooke, for the short blissful weeks she'd shared his life, that same true love magic must have been what had kept him human. But now? Was he maintaining a façade through some sort of—as Dr. Hopper would put it—unconscious block? If so, would a stray wrong thought reveal the imp?

Mr. Gold rubbed his forehead. _My speculations are wilder than Charming's_.

"Is everything okay?"

He glanced up to see the hulking blond driver watching him in the rearview mirror. "Just a headache, Skyr."

Mr. Gold knew a secret about Avalon Car Services that would have made many in Storybrooke nervous: it was one hundred percent ogre owned and operated. But like the rodents that ran Franklin's garage, the fairies at the convent, and the town's cricket psychologist—the dozen or so ogres who'd been brought to Storybrooke enjoyed human form. Luckily for them, the curse being broken, their memories returning, and magic flooding the town hadn't changed that.

Mr. Gold chewed his lip. _But none of them live under the spell of an infernal dagger_.

As the Cadillac Fleetwood pulled up in front of his shop, Mr. Gold saw Pinocchio riding his motorcycle toward them. "A minute," he said to Skyr.

How his acquaintance with the young man had grown so friendly, Mr. Gold couldn't explain. Hadn't Pinocchio used his love for his lost boy to trick him? And hadn't Pinocchio's purpose been to get his hands on the dagger so he could subject the Dark One to his will?

Of course, Pinocchio's brazen _I command thee_ had failed so abysmally, it had almost been funny. And his blunder had answered Mr. Gold's most burning question: in a world-without-magic, the dagger held no power over him. His relief at the discovery had played a large part in his sparing the young man's life. And learning Pinocchio's motivation—fear that he was reverting to wood—had brought out the pragmatist in Mr. Gold. He had always found desperate souls to be useful.

As he watched Pinocchio park his bike, Mr. Gold wondered whether his generosity had been wise. He lowered his window. "Hey."

The young man grinned and waved. Despite himself, Mr. Gold felt his mouth curve in an answering smile. He had no logical reason to trust Pinocchio. Sure, the young man was full of jovial good will. He was also an irresponsible, pleasure-seeking liar not above taking advantage when he could. And yet… Maybe the fact they'd confronted each other in a life-or-death situation and survived was _why_ they got along so well now.

Sauntering up to Mr. Gold's window, Pinocchio asked, "Am I too early?"

"Your timing helps me. I have a favor to ask."

Pinocchio chuckled. "The sheriff and King George _said _you always have a price. But you know, doesn't _everyone_? You're doing me a solid with Ruby. What can I do for you?"

"I need to check on something at home. Could you watch my shop while I'm gone? I'm closed for inventory but some people have appointments. Mrs. Blue is picking up her son's horn. Mr. Katt is retrieving his fiddle. And all four of the Bremen Town Musicians want their songbooks."

"Oh, yes. The charity concert. It's right before my party."

Mr. Gold handed Pinocchio his shop keys. "The items are by the cash register. These are _rightful owner claims_ so no charges_._ Just make sure everyone signs their chit. Otherwise… enjoy your time with Ruby." Reaching for his wallet to tip Skyr, he said, "Please call Avalon and tell Gryla I'm keeping the car for the day. They can pick you up here."

A few minutes later, Mr. Gold was driving himself home. When the Dark One's dagger had proven itself powerless, he'd squirreled it away in his attic—a relic of his past. Now that he feared the thing was toxic again, he needed to rebury it without delay.

* * *

Pinocchio stood behind Mr. Gold's counter feeling pleased with himself. Tom Yao and Jack Barking had picked up their items with little fuss. The third Bremen Town Musician had been suspicious about the pawnbroker-antique-restorer-lawyer-wizard leaving anyone in charge of his shop. As Storybrooke's judge, Mr. Crower had worked with Mr. Gold in court—before regaining his memory and quitting to pursue his calling as a tenor. But after a couple of pointed questions, the sentient-rooster-turned-human had shrugged. "Why should I care?"

_And everyone signed their claim. _All in all, Pinocchio felt he was handling Mr. Gold's business rather well. Playing shop owner for an hour had given him an idea for another character to include in his new thriller.

_Can't wait for Monday_. That's when he'd be flying out. Pinocchio's eyes strayed to the velvet-lined display box of pawned rings next to a chipped china cup. Some of them sported nifty-looking diamonds that would extend his stay in Singapore beyond a few weeks—give him more time to research his novel. Turning away, he slapped his own cheek. _Be good!_ he told himself. _And if you can't be good, at least don't be stupid._

The little bell rang and the door swung open, revealing a sweet young thing in a short blue lace dress carrying a large paper bag. Even wearing the highest-heeled red pumps he'd ever seen in Storybrooke, she was still petite. When she noticed him, her sudden smile was engaging. _If this is Mrs. Blue, she's a MILF_, Pinocchio thought.

"Where's Rumple?" she asked. "I brought his lunch. Ruby was busy, and it was on my way…"

_Ruby's busy?_ Pinocchio's shoulders sagged. "Mr. Gold had an urgent errand. I'm watching his shop for a bit. Are you—"

"Belle," she said, walking up to the counter, bringing the aroma of fish and chips with her. "I'd hoped that Rumple…" As her words trailed off, Pinocchio noted her smile drooping.

"You know, I've never heard anyone call him a nickname before. You must be… close."

Belle looked down, released a soft "Hmm" and swung the fish-and-chips bag. Finally, she said, "We knew each other _before. _I was his housekeeper. For his rather large estate." Her own choice of words seemed to amuse her. When she looked up again, she was biting back a grin.

_Housekeeper. Never heard that one before. Good job, Mr. Gold_. "So what about Storybrooke?"

"He didn't tell you?" Belle cocked her head. "I've never known Rumple to trust anyone to look after his shop. I'd have thought _you_ were close."

Pinocchio leaned down, elbows on the counter. "Not so close that Mr. Gold would tell me who he's keeping house with."

Belle laughed, clearly embarrassed. "I confess. We were. But then—" She placed the takeout bag on the counter. She straightened it so it aligned with the edge. "During the curse, I spent rather a _long_ time locked up. When it broke, Rumple and I, hmm—we _found_ each other. And it was..." Her words trailed off in a long, dreamy sigh. "But we had some _issues_. Rumple, you see... hmm. Mainly, I—_I_ needed some freedom, a chance to stand on my own two feet. Now that I'm the librarian, have my own apartment, have a life, well, I miss... sharing my stories."

That such an amiable young woman would ask after Mr. Gold made Pinocchio smile—and he couldn't explain why. Maybe the fact the man had threatened to cut him with a dagger, incinerate him in his bed, and torture his newly human flesh—but _didn't_—was the reason he felt so warmly toward him now.

"So Ruby had the brilliant idea of sending you to _casually_ drop off his lunch." Pinocchio rubbed his bearded jaw. "Do you want to hear something funny? Mr. Gold suggested I come to his shop today so I could run into Ruby—_casually_ tell her the story of how I fended off King George's men."

Belle's eyebrows rose. "I'd been wondering why your face looks so banged up."

Pinocchio returned a crooked smile. "I don't suppose Ruby's mentioned me? August?"

"The author?" Belle lifted her chin. "You're the one who can come and go from Storybrooke as he pleases. The library has six copies of each of your novels, yet we still have a waiting list. Everybody wants to read the homeboy's take on the great wide world. Ruby's favorite is _Rendezvous in Kathmandu_. She bought a new copy for herself."

"You made my day." That Ruby had been willing to pay full list price was a very good sign indeed. Pinocchio shifted his weight. "I'm about to fly to Singapore. I'm throwing a going away party Friday night at my Dad's after the concert. Do you think you and Ruby—? Or is it too soon? I know her friend Billy just died."

"He's definitely on Ruby's mind." Belle sighed. "Maybe she can drop in to say goodbye."

The shop bell rang again. A tall, chunky woman ambled through the door wearing orange stretch pants and a black t-shirt of Miles Davis blowing his trumpet. "I'm Mrs. Blue. Where's Gold?"

"He was called away. But I have your boy's horn." To Belle he said, "If Ruby's not up to it, I'll call when I get back. But I hope _you_ can come. Mr. Gold's going to _check his calendar_."

Belle pursed her lips. "Hmm."

* * *

Smee was on Mr. Gold's third floor rifling his dozenth antique armoire when he heard the front door open. He froze, praying it was a cleaning lady. Then a cane tapped the hardwood two floors below, and Smee's stomach clenched. How long would it take the cripple to limp up the stairs?

As quietly as a breeze, Smee guided the wardrobe door shut. He took a moment to squat and remove his shoes. Dangling them by their shoelaces, he tiptoed out of the bedroom and past the grand staircase landing. Though he could easily outrun Mr. Gold, he didn't dare try. Likely, the Dark One wouldn't toss a fireball in his own house, but that left him a thousand other ways to catch and punish an intruder such as Smee.

When he heard the cane click on the stairs, Smee gulped. His only hope was to climb higher. Surely, the Dark One wouldn't traipse up to his attic.

Smee stole down the hall, clutching his doubloon-filled pocket so it wouldn't jingle. Each time the floorboards creaked, he gnawed his lip. Reaching the latched wall panel he'd spotted earlier, he hooked his thumb in the ring pull and popped it open. _Eureka! A ladder!_ Suspending his shoes from his teeth, Mr. Smee clambered up the rungs. His years of rigging sails on the Jolly Roger served him well.

At the top, he slid the hatch cover aside, pulled himself up into the attic, set down his shoes, nudged the wall panel shut, and lowered the cover again.

Proud of his ingenuity, Smee grinned. _The Dark One won't even suspect I'm here_.

The room was pitch black, which was a good thing. If no light was entering—not even past the edges of the trapdoor—then no light could beam out to the floor below. Smee reached into the inside pocket of his peacoat and thrust his fingers through the hole in the lining, fumbling for his flashlight.

When he clicked it on, he saw a low, peaked, unfinished storage space packed tight. He noted a cupboard and a bookshelf accessible to searching. He'd have to wait for the Dark One to leave before moving the trunks and crates stacked against the back wall. They appeared to be several layers deep.

He took a step then heard the squeak of door hinges below him. After a painfully long minute, a toilet flushed. Smee grinned. _Even the Dark One has to take a piss now and then. _

Smee heard water running in a sink and pipes banging. Under cover of the noise, he scurried to the shelves. A quick scan revealed tarnished candlesticks, geode bookends, porcelain goose girls, a pony saddle, and a tangle of linen. He turned his light on the cupboard. _How loud will opening the drawers be?_

Smee paused. Had he been too hasty dismissing the shelves? He beamed his flashlight on the bottom one again. That pile of linen—why was it lower in the center? Was something heavy hidden inside it?

Excited, he crouched and reached toward the linen. When he felt a hard, flat object beneath the cloth, his heart raced. He pulled aside the folds and dropped his jaw. _The Dark One's dagger_.

As a weapon, it looked unimposing—knobbed grip, round hilt, and foot-long wavy blade. Yet Smee had no doubt he was staring at the most dangerous magical object ever to exist in his old world or his new. One word was embossed on the blade: _Rumplestiltskin._

Smee wanted to whoop with joy. All he dared do was hug himself.

Then he heard scraping behind him, and his heart pounded. The trapdoor was opening. Trembling, he extinguished his light though he knew it would make no difference. In the bric-a-brac crammed attic, where could he hide? When the Dark One poked his head through the hatch, Smee was done for.

Then he remembered the dagger.

Light from the floor below illuminated the blade. Staring at it, fear clutched his throat. How was he supposed to use it to control the Dark One? Point it? Intone the Dark One's name? Shout a command?

Terrified, Smee extended his quivering hand toward the dagger. And then the undreamt-of happened: it rose off its bed of linen. It hovered for a fraction of a second then shot past him. He grabbed for it. The edge grazed his thumb. In the light of the hatchway, the iron gleamed. Then the dagger dropped from sight.

Helpless, Smee stared as the hatch cover settled into place. He crammed his fist into his mouth to stifle his sobs. He'd had the dagger within his grasp and lost it. If the Dark One knew it was at risk, no telling where he'd hide it.

When at last Smee heard the front door close, he collapsed on the attic floor, whimpering and sucking his cut thumb.

That damned biscuit tin would roast him alive.

* * *

That evening, as Belle meandered around the playhouse lobby, waiting for the start of the town hall meeting, she eavesdropped shamelessly. At first she did it for Ruby. She was relieved to find that fear of the wolf that had roused the mob the night before was gone. Everyone knew that King George had hacked up Billy to frame Ruby. Sympathy had swung to the shapeshifting waitress.

Then Belle noted other schisms among Storybrooke's citizens she found disturbing.

The murder of Billy aka Gus the Mouse had rallied the beasts-turned-human to form an interest group: the Former Sentient Animals of the Enchanted Forest. On one side of the lobby, she identified previous wolves, bears, and foxes in tête-à-tête with previous sheep, rabbits, and chickens. Ex-Dogs conferred with ex-cats, and ex-cats conferred with ex-mice. Many of the Former Sentient Animals advised caution. The rest, alarmingly, called for King George's blood.

On the other side of the lobby, Belle was even more shocked to hear lack of outrage: "Can't a king do as he pleases?" "Aren't humans—real humans—more important than beasts?" "Is killing a mouse even murder?"

Before Belle could calm herself enough to butt in, the objects of her indignation went silent and edged backwards. Turning, she saw Rumplestiltskin.

_Oh._ Heart-stoppingly handsome in his black suit, black silk shirt, and red-and-black tie with just the hint of a red handkerchief in his breast pocket, he entered the building with the pleasant smile she knew was his shield in a crowd. As he crossed the floor at his usual majestic pace, no one said a word to him. They merely gave way.

Belle bit her lip. Under the bright lights, the lines around his cinnamon brown eyes betrayed how little attention he was paying to his health. She recalled how restless he could be in bed, murmuring pleas to dreamland bogeymen throughout the long nights.

She continued gazing until Rumple had passed into the sparsely occupied hall and claimed an aisle seat. A call to assemble came over the public address system, and she let the crowd carry her inside.

* * *

Emma leaned against the catalpa tree at the edge of the Lost Boys camp, absently tearing off leaves and listening to Neal. Given what she knew about the mindset of people raised in the Enchanted Forest, his giving in to Rheul Gorm wasn't surprising. He'd known her as the ruler of the night, the original power. When she'd said _sacrifice_, Neal had asked _how much?_

But Emma wasn't letting him off the hook just yet.

"That's got to be the lamest excuse a guy ever gave for ditching a girl: the Blue Fairy made me do it."

Neal hung his head. In the light of the cattail torch he'd stuck in the ground between them, Emma could see him grimace. "It sounds that way to me now, too. Papa never trusted—"

_Danger zone. I need to stop him talking about his father. _"Why is _my_ fairytale some sort of she-must-undergo-seven-trials story? Why does everybody else get—" She stopped herself before she blurted out _true love_. "Happily ever after?"

Out the corner of her eye, Emma caught her mother smiling. "Darling, _happily _is not as _ever after_ as you'd think. Look at your father and me. You need to enjoy happiness when you have it, treasure your memories when it's gone, and work hard to get it back."

In the flickering light, Emma saw Neal nodding. "My poor papa had nothing but—"

"What I don't understand," Emma broke in, "is what happened to the twenty-thousand the fence gave you for the watches."

"Fenced watches? Emma!" Mary-Margaret's voice was stern.

"I wouldn't get self-righteous if I were you." Emma folded her arms. "Didn't you tell me you met my father while robbing him?"

Her mother's upright posture slumped. "Uh, you asked Neal a question…"

"August," Neal replied. "That's my guess. He was supposed to give you the car _and_ the money."

"The postmark on the envelope with the VW key was Phuket. I hope he had a good time." Emma shook her head. "I don't want the money _now_, but he owes me. I want him to donate it—to improving foster care."

"Absolutely," Neal agreed. "A promise is a kind of deal. Papa always said that deals—"

At the word _Papa_, Emma started to interrupt. "August and I—" Then she stopped. "Deals? Your father has a particular interest in making deals?"

Mary-Margaret jumped in. "Neal said his papa is exceptionally caring, humble, and selfless. Maybe he's that nice mattress salesman."

Emma saw the cheerful wrinkles she knew so well fan from the corners of Neal's brown eyes as he recalled his papa. On the one hand, she wondered at her mother's insistence that thoughts of his father weren't happy. On the other, she knew the question that had crossed her mind was silly. Obviously, Neal's dad wasn't Mr. Gold.

"Snow told me you still have the VW bug." For the first time since she'd slugged him, Emma felt Neal's eyes lock on hers. Her pulse beat in her neck. "Storybrooke's sheriff drives a stolen car?"

"Yeah, well." Emma looked aside and tore off another catalpa leaf. Damn, if the silly thing wasn't heart-shaped. "I couldn't let go of it."

"Why?"

"It's where I met you."

* * *

Belle watched Acting Sheriff David Nolan. Exuding princely self-confidence in jeans and leather jacket, he called the meeting to order. He was barely into the agenda when an old woman stood up.

"Can't we cut to the chase? What are we going to do with King George?"

"We?" one of the royals blurted out from the other side of the hall. "Prince Charming defeated him. Prince Charming decides what happens to him."

After a few more spontaneous exchanges across the audience, the schisms Belle had observed in the lobby became chasms.

Nearby, a hefty bearded man in a plaid lumberjack's coat said in a booming voice, "I'm not a Former Sentient Animal myself, but my partner is. The only justice is a death for a death." He wrapped his arm around the equally hefty woman in blue next to him. "You know that, Charming. What're you waiting for?"

Belle could see the question alarmed David as much as it did her. "No lynching. Not on my watch."

In front of her, a chicken man jumped up. "Beheading then! That's what he'd have done to us back home. You know I'm right, Charming."

Behind Belle, a silky, feline voice called out, "The honor of the Former Sentient Animals of the Enchanted Forest demands it!"

"My axe is in my car," the lumberjack announced. "Say the word, Charming, and we'll do it now."

"Stop! Stop!" David slammed his fist on his podium. "Billy's death was a murder. No question there. King George was arrested for it, and he'll be tried. The only matter up for discussion is under which laws and which jurisdiction."

Near the front of the auditorium, Belle saw a long, skinny, tweed-clad arm pop up. David pointed, and Archie sprang to his feet, his ginger hair bouncing. "Mr. Gold is a lawyer. Why don't we consult him?"

As the psychologist retook his seat, raucous objections broke out amid boos and catcalls. Belle cringed and glanced at Rumple, sitting just a few rows ahead of her. He remained upright and unmoved, letting the disapproval wash over him like surf against a rock. The fact he was used to it made her feel even worse.

David waved both hands for silence. "A legal opinion. We're just asking for a legal opinion." When the uproar had subsided, he gestured to Rumple.

Belle could see Rumple's back rise and fall in a sigh. Then slowly, he rose to his feet. "The question is jurisdiction—where we were or where we are. In our old world, King George would never have stood trial. That's a given. There authority was established by combat or magic. Those without power like William Fromage lived at the whim of those who had it." He took a deep breath. "This new world offers a chance for _something different_."

When he paused, Belle noted that even the rustling had died down.

"Granted, King George has no appreciable power in Storybrooke. He has no castle, no knights, no army of hobnail boots, no subjects obliged to fealty. For many here, the proposal to drag him from jail and lop off his head would be their first opportunity to exercise that privilege that's been held over them for so long—_honor_." Rumple paused and surveyed the now attentive audience. "But violence would be an invitation to a power struggle to establish a new autocracy. In the end, it would be just as imbalanced and capricious as what ruled the Enchanted Forest."

In front of her, Belle heard Mr. Clark the pharmacist start muttering loudly. Everyone excused him for such odd behavior. After all, he was the poor test subject who'd crossed the border—sad proof that doing so meant losing one's Enchanted Forest memories. Suddenly, he jumped up and shouted, "This is ridiculous! Billy was a man, not a talking mouse. Albert Spencer is a district attorney who went nuts, not some old king named George. Come on, folks! Be real! This fairy tale stuff is a delusion!"

Belle saw Rumple shake his head as if to himself. Then he lifted one hand. As he did, every unoccupied seat in the hall rose off the floor. His index finger outlined a circle in the air, and the levitating furniture danced. Belle stared upwards, lips parted, filled with a faint nostalgic wonder. Around her, fellow citizens screamed, wrapping their arms around their heads and cowering. Then Rumple flicked his finger, and every chair settled gently into place.

Looking back over his shoulder, he cast his weary brown eyes on Mr. Clark. "Magic exists. Deal with it."

Mr. Clark nodded shakily. _I bet he'll be ready to answer to Sneezy now_, thought Belle.

Rumple returned his attention to David. "As I was saying… if Storybrooke wants to thrive under a higher code than _honor_ and _power_—wants to embrace the code of equity where everyone accepts and lives under the same social contract—then King George must receive a fair and proper trial according to the laws of _this_ world."

With that, Rumple took a sideways step, pivoted on his cane, and slowly walked up the aisle. Again, the hall grew noisy—but this time with the hum of conversation. Belle's gaze stayed on Rumple. She considered pushing her way down her row to follow, but that might embarrass him.

She reached into her pocket and took out her phone.

* * *

The whole time Archie was doing his civic duty by attending the town hall meeting, he couldn't wait to get home. The day before he'd steeled his nerves and created a Facebook profile. By suppertime, half of Storybrooke had friended him. But they weren't who he was looking for. Every few minutes, he'd checked his page without success. At midnight, he'd seen it: Vincent Chalmers' reply to his invitation.

_Of course, I remember the apartment we shared at SUNY. What I can't remember is how or why we lost touch. _

As Mr. Gold had predicted, Archie's illusory college roommate—hijacked by the curse to be a part of his false identity—not only had memories of him but pictures as well.

Archie opened his front door slowly, blocking his rambunctious dalmatian's escape. Immediately, his eyes sought out the photo Vincent had sent that he'd printed and framed the night before: his twenty-year-old self in a red polka-dotted shirt and white bowtie arm-in-arm with a taller twenty-year-old in a purple silk bomber jacket, fending off a deluge of streamers and confetti.

Oddly, it didn't matter to Archie that over a hundred years had passed since he'd looked twenty, that the only corner of earth he'd ever visited was Storybrooke, and that he and the handsome young man had never actually met. He now knew the curse had implanted in Vincent the same warm recollections of Mardi Gras, New Orleans, 1991. That miracle made Archie glow all over.

He dipped into his pocket and pulled out a dog biscuit. Pongo sat without being asked, his bottom wiggling in anticipation. Archie skipped the full _Stay! Shake! High Five! _repertoire and gave the dog his treat. Locking the door, he hurried down the hall toward his study and his waiting computer.

As he walked, a fat persian and a lanky tabby wove around his legs. "Hi, guys," he murmured. "I already fed you. No more tuna tonight."

Entering his study, he turned to his desk. Atop it a scruffy, toothless gray tom basked in the glow of the lamp. Smiling, Archie got comfortable on his executive leather chair. One hand tickling the purring cat, the other on his mouse, he read his newest message.

_Over a dozen pillars of society have quit their jobs to pursue their old dreams? Your Storybrooke is in crisis—like something out of a story _;D. _I look forward to you dishing the dirt on your town hall meeting._

_I'm back, _Archie typed._ Storybrooke's own It's a Wonderful Life Mr. Potter took an astounding leap down his path to becoming a better person. Tonight, he gave a rousing speech about equity. I hope it inspires reforms in our local justice system._

Archie settled his chin on his palm, staring at the screen. In a couple of minutes he read:

_Small towns are America in microcosm. You've found your life's mission. And Storybrooke is lucky you're there to help sort the opportunities from the dilemmas._

Archie sighed. Nobody could validate him like Vincent.

Feeling a vibration in his jacket pocket, he slipped out his phone. "Hello?"

"Doctor? Sorry I disturbed you. I'd thought this was your office number. I meant to leave a message."

"My cell is my _only_ number… Is—is this Mr. Gold?"

"Yes. I'd like to make an appointment... I need some... guidance... I received a text..."

Archie knew better than to ask from whom. Since Mr. Gold sounded disconcerted, not suicidal, he didn't want to start counseling on the phone. "My regular schedule is full tomorrow, but if you can get to my office at eight a.m., we can talk."

"Yes. Thanks." Mr. Gold sounded relieved. "Good night, doctor."

Archie stared at the screen. _Should I?_ He'd already told Vincent so much about his life. He just had to continue taking precautions: disguise identities, substitute earth versions for Enchanted Forest problems, and hold back the really bad stuff. It wasn't like his dear imaginary-friend-turned-real-friend would ever find his way to Storybrooke.

Archie returned his hands to his keyboard. _You won't believe who just called for a session._

* * *

After the twins replaced Freebird and Rock in the treetop lookout posts and everyone else had gone to bed, Neal tiptoed past Tootles and picked up the mitten where Tinkerbelle snuggled and snored. He shook it.

Jingling fiercely, his little friend popped out her little blonde head. "Can't a poor girl get some shut-eye?"

Neal grinned. "Could you spare a pinch of fairy dust? I'm in the mood for flying."

* * *

**Author's Note**: What do you do when canon goes astray? Sigh. In OUaT 2x15, suddenly _everyone_ knows about the Dark One's dagger? How does Snow and Charming's nonchalant knowledge comport with Rumple's paranoid reaction to Belle just knowing he was under a curse (OUaT 1x12)? And Belle _not_ knowing a thing about the dagger when Hook questioned her (OUaT 2x9)? Well, in _this_ story, the number of people who know about the dagger remains small.


	10. Have You Ever Had a Hamburger?

**All the Rumplestiltskin/Mr. Gold canonical backstory you need to know** is in this 3 minute 13 second music video, from losing Bae to finding Belle. It's as if Katryn Depp edited this just for me (but she didn't). This video even includes quick cuts of Rumple squishing the snail, trying to thwack that pesky Blue Fairy, and just ever so slightly insane isolated in Charming's and Snow's dungeon (and they're the good guys?); also Gold on Hopper's couch, sobbing to Pinocchio when he believes he's Baelfire, thrashing Moe, attending a town hall meeting, drinking coffee from one of Chief Emma's paper cups, smashing stuff, quietly restoring an antique, and propped up on his cane outside the police station interrogation room. The only thing missing is a really good leather pants shot. **Warning:** Extreme angst!

**youtube DOT com/watch?v=QAAn4uERXhA**

**The Charming-Rumple swordfight (in leather pants)**(3 min 18 sec): **youtube DOT com/watch?v=SKzkMdTCGIk**

**Mr. Gold promising Belle not to _kill_ Regina **(1 min 31 sec): **youtube DOT com/watch?v=h-mdGnTF0c4**

For every link, replace "DOT" with punctuation

* * *

_**Chapter 10**_

**Have You Ever Had a Hamburger?**

**Mr. Gold to Belle (referring to Granny)**: I have a complicated relationship with her… as I do with most people (_Into the Deep_).

The moon had barely risen when Neal flew from the Fire Swamp camp up to the sky. _Emma kept the car because it's where she met me._ That thought sent him soaring higher and higher. When they were a pair of homeless teens living on impulse, they hadn't merely traveled from town to town in that old Volkswagen; they'd slept in it. In fact, more than likely, it was where they'd made Henry. _And Emma kept driving that hotwired yellow bug around ever after._ If that wasn't a sign she true love loved him, nothing was.

Now all he had to do was get off her son-of-a-bitch list.

Neal tilted to circle over the swamp cypress that ringed the camp. The first thing was to fly her and her mother back to their son. The second was to be someone she could be proud of by rescuing the lost Lost Boys. Neal's forehead knitted together. Their disappearances had coincided with Hook's reappearance in Neverland. If that cold-hearted pirate was involved, there was a good chance some or all of his friends were dead.

Suddenly, air rushed at his face. _I'm falling_!

At that realization, Neal plummeted faster. He flapped his arms, but that was pointless. _Curl up_, he told himself, _tuck your head in, loop your hand over your neck, angle your shoulder down…_

Then he felt a tug on his coat collar. "Slow down, glamour boy," Tinkerbelle jingled as she swung him into a horizontal glide.

"Thanks!" —gasp— "Nearly screamed" –gasp— "acted a fool."

"Calling on your friends is never foolish." Tink paused. "What was that?"

The sound coming from one of the lean-tos below wasn't a scream. From this distance, Neal couldn't tell what it was. "Probably one of Aurora's nightmares. Let me down."

This time Neal dropped at a safe speed controlled by his little fairy friend. A few inches from earth, Tink let go. He hit the ground jogging. Up ahead, he could make out Snow White ducking into the princess's lean-to with Emma trailing.

_Is Mulan on patrol?_ Neal wondered.

Nearing the lean-to, he heard the women arguing.

"No," Snow whispered, "she's murmuring. I'm not waking her up unless I hear an honest-to-goodness whimper."

"Mom—" Emma began.

"Yanking Aurora out of the sleeping curse netherworld won't yank Henry out of it too. It'll just stop her from hearing what he has to say."

Emma didn't respond. When Neal crouched beside her, she turned her face to his. In the darkness, he couldn't read it. He reached out and laid his hand over hers.

Cocking his ear toward the sleeping beauty, Neal had to agree with Snow. Aurora didn't seem upset. "My guess is she's talking to Henry right now."

Neal, Emma, and Snow all leaned forward. Suddenly, he heard a scream—not from the sleeper but from outside the camp.

Emma yanked her hand away and sprang to her feet. "Mulan."

Typical of the camp's only trained soldier, the scream didn't sound like a cry for help. To Neal it sounded like a call to battle.

* * *

Still sleepless at three in the morning, Mr. Gold dressed and drove to his shop. Long experience told him that when troubling thoughts kept him awake, the best relief was work. Smashing every breakable object in reach of his cane also brought welcome distraction, and such venting provided more antique repair projects to occupy his mind, but he had to admit that the cycle of destruction and restoration was a bit self-indulgent.

Thankfully tonight, a more worthy task awaited him in his pawnshop. Not a simple job like reassembling a cracked vase or lacquering a damaged cabinet, but one that would require all his talents: bottling true love.

As he parked the Avalon Car Services Cadillac, he recalled the crafty old wizard who'd traded the formula for a lesson spinning straw into gold. Never had the Dark One made a better deal. In all the universes—both the ones he'd visited via the Hatter Wizards' portal-hopping hat and the ones he'd only heard about—no magic held greater power than the purple passion potion he hoped to brew tonight.

Opening his door, Mr. Gold positioned his cane on the pavement, swiveled and stepped out with his good leg. He flinched when pain flared in his bad knee. Then he nodded. Before the sun set again, Storybrooke would see rain. At the moment, the clouds scattered across the night sky looked like lace. The moon, slightly deflated, shone through them beside the library clock tower.

_Belle's new home_. Mr. Gold noted that all the lights were off in both the public library downstairs and the private apartment upstairs—Belle observing her civic duty to conserve energy. When she had raised such issues in their time together, he'd always argued the opposite—anything to divert her from asking him questions. But still she had. When he'd interrogated Pinocchio, he'd accepted _decline to say_ as an answer. Not Belle. In the end, his repeated silences had sent her packing. From the first night she was gone, he'd taken up stumbling around in the dark.

Sighing, Mr. Gold hobbled around the rear of the car, climbed the curb, and continued to his front door. The problem had been his promise to never lie. Following the incident with the wraith Belle had made him extend that promise to lies of misdirection as well. Keeping his word had reduced him to chitchat. After all, in his dealings with the rest of humanity, he relied on creating false impressions.

Unlocking his front door brought to mind the white-faced shock he'd given Pinocchio just the evening before. As he'd accepted his keys back he'd said, _The matter at home took longer than I expected. Thanks for waiting around. As payment, you can have that item you've been ogling all afternoon._

When _that item_ had turned out to be a diamond ring, Mr. Gold hadn't batted an eye. The illusion he'd planted that he had supernatural awareness of any risk to himself or his possessions—even a footloose young man's momentary temptation—was invaluable. In reality, the only disturbance he could magically perceive in his environment was one caused by magic. For everyday threats, he depended on his ability to read people.

Not that it always held true. As with magic, the more personal the issue, the more likely his perception was to fail. Pinocchio had tricked him into believing he was Baelfire because the lie had fit his yearning. Regina had tricked him into believing he'd driven Belle to suicide because the lie had fit his fear.

Pressing his lips together, Mr. Gold opened the door, making his shop bell jingle. All in all, his temperament was better suited to the impersonal. _True love in a bottle_—that was something he could make work.

Mr. Gold locked the door behind him and crossed the floor, managing the familiar territory in the dark until he reached his front counter. Switching on the lamp, he examined the pile of properly labeled evidence bags holding single strands of hair. Charming hadn't wasted any time. By Mr. Gold's count, a dozen couples had donated. How many would testing prove to be truly in love?

If the usual odds held, less than half.

* * *

As Emma ran across the camp she kept hearing Mulan shout. Though she couldn't make out any words, she realized that each outburst was accompanied by the clash of metal on metal. Her companion sounded like she was fighting for her life.

_Better grab my own sword_.

Emma zigzagged to her sleeping quarters while all around her the camp came noisily awake. Ducking through the curtain of vines, she grabbed the weapon Nibs had found to replace the one Curly had dropped down the cliff side. A _lady sword_ he'd called it. The roses embossed on the hilt made it too girly for any Lost Boy to use, but the blade was sharp and true.

Twisting out of her lean-to into flickering light, Emma glanced up. The twins were zooming overhead with torches aflame and daggers outstretched. _Worse than running with scissors. _To be a good example, as she lit out in the direction of the clanging battle, she kept her sword in its scabbard.

Nearing Mulan, Emma began to hear the boys' cries as well. What were they facing? Hook and his crew? Ogres? Cora's zombies?

Emma rounded a massive swamp cypress on the edge of camp. On the far side, a single pair of duelists exchanged parries and thrusts: Mulan and a lanky, black-haired, black-mustached young man. Relieved to see just one intruder, Emma stopped to catch her breath and survey the small clearing.

Nearly a dozen torches shone down on the swordfighters. The hovering Lost Boys holding them aloft yelled out advice and encouragement. Emma was perturbed to realize not all of it was directed at Mulan. Evidently, the boys had decided it would be more fun to not all root for the same side.

_But Mulan's definitely winning_, Emma thought. The stranger hopped nimbly from boulder to grass tussock to rotting stump in a flashy manner that had his supporters cheering, but his energy was mostly showmanship. Her comrade-in-arms kept her movements economical, waiting until her opponent chanced within range before she shrieked and lunged. When Mulan's sword made contact with his leather jerkin, his aim wavered, and he stumbled backwards. Again, her friend charged with a mighty scream, this time slashing his sleeve.

"Why on earth is she making that racket?" Emma muttered.

Mary-Margaret came alongside her, bow and quiver slung across her back. "A shout gives Mulan a strong exhalation on the hit. That increases her focus and intensifies the force of her blow."

"Seriously?" _I'm going to have to remember that._

"Plus," her Mom added, "a woman screeching really freaks a guy out."

The duelists began deflecting each other's strikes at lightning speed. Then the stranger feinted to the left, circled Mulan's blade with his and tapped her gauntlet. She crossed his sword with hers, but he pushed her back. His fans went wild, and he gave a little bow. Then Mulan shot one leg forward and one backward like a gymnast doing the splits. With a roar, she brought her sword up under his wrist guard. Fumbling, he barely held onto his hilt.

Neal dashed up brandishing an unsheathed cutlass. Emma scowled. _I'll need to talk to him about that later_.

"Is Mulan in trouble?" he asked. "Does she need help?"

Placing her hands on her hips, Emma widened her eyes. "You think an experienced soldier can't best a lone swordsman just because she's a woman?" She waited until she saw a flustered why-do-I-always-put-my-foot-in-my-mouth look on Neal's face before giving him a chummy punch on the arm. "Don't worry. She's fine. The screams are part of her technique."

Emma, flanked by Neal and Snow, watched the pair dance with each other, blades clanging. With a shriek, Mulan swung around and took a swipe at her opponent. This time she drew blood.

Emma winced. "I'm more worried for whoever that guy is she's dueling."

* * *

An hour before sunrise, Charming pulled up at the side of _Mr. Gold, Pawnbroker and Antiquities Dealer_ and drew his gun. When Belle had called about seeing a light that hadn't been on earlier, he'd rolled his eyes but dragged himself from bed to take a look. He'd felt the likelihood was slim that any Storybrooke citizen would risk death—or worse—from whatever protective curses the wizard was rumored to have cast on his shop. But investigating 911's was his job.

Then, on drive-by, Charming had seen a hellish purple light seeping out the gaps in the blinds on the side door. That had put a whole different spin on the matter. Whoever had broken in was wielding magic—maybe that evil sorceress that Henry's netherworld friend had warned him about just a few hours before. She was trying to reach Storybrooke. Perhaps she'd succeeded.

Charming approached the eerily glowing door by sidling along the wooden wall—something he'd seen in a cop reality show. If the perpetrator had magic, then his best bet was the element of surprise. He stopped, raised his leg, and aimed his boot heel just below the knob. _One, two, three, kick!_

The frame splintered, and the door slammed against the inside wall. Charming darted inside, aiming his Berretta with both hands. Across the room, he saw Rumplestiltskin seated at his work table, illuminated by a ball of fire poised to be thrown.

For a moment, they stared at each other. Then Charming saw the shock on Rumplestiltskin's face relax into a sardonic grin.

"Please don't shoot, dearie. _I_ can't be harmed, but I'd hate to ruin another suit."

_I wish he'd stop calling me dearie. _When the wizard snuffed out his fireball, Charming lowered his pistol. "Uh, someone called in they'd seen a suspicious light. Then when I noticed the purple glow…" Whatever was making it was shining up at Rumplestiltskin from his work table, creating ridges and shadows on his face like an imp's mask.

"True love does look rather fiendish when it's put on display," the wizard said.

_So that's what that is,_ Charming thought. _Purple passion potion_.

He swung the cracked door shut as best he could. Stepping closer to Rumplestiltskin, he ran his eyes over the collection of bottles standing on the work table. A dark brown sludge filled six of them. Two others contained gray goo that occasionally shimmered as silver fibers snaked through. The final four glowed purple. Any doubt he was viewing magic was dispelled by the pairs of golden fibers dancing inside each vial.

"That's all twelve," Charming said. "You mean half the matches were duds?"

"They're _your_ friends." Rumplestiltskin began pointing out purple bottles. "Abigail and Frederick, Rapunzel and Flynn, Ivan and Helene—all positive. By accident, I mixed up two of the other couples, but it turned out that the wife of one is positive for the husband of the other."

Charming grimaced. "I don't need to know."

"This result counts as positive but too weak to be of any use." Rumplestiltskin held up a gray bottle. "Ella and Thomas."

Charming groaned. "Please stop identifying them."

Rumplestiltskin leaned back. "You really shouldn't have limited yourself to royals. They like to claim all the happily-ever-afters, but occasionally commoners find true love as well."

"Point taken." Charming felt a vibration in his breast pocket and slipped out his cell phone. "Hello?"

"Was there a break-in? Was anything stolen?"

"Ah, Belle." Charming rubbed the back of his neck. "It turns out Gold was working late. On some magic for _me_, actually. Want to talk to him?" He looked up to see Rumplestiltskin frantically waving his hands for _no_. "Uh, he doesn't—" As that word left his mouth, the wizard's expression became even more anxious, and his gesture changed to a hasty summons. "Just a moment."

Rumplestiltskin swallowed noticeably before taking the phone. "Hello?"

In the next instant, the harsh lines in his face vanished. He closed his eyes, cradled the phone to his ear and hugged an arm across his chest. "Yes… I… I couldn't sleep… Chamomile and lavender… I tried that… What magic? Nothing to be concerned about. Just a little something to power a portal to reach Emma and Mary-Margaret… Yes... I know… Act in haste, repent at leisure…" His lips relaxed into a smile. "You needn't remind me…"

The way Rumplestiltskin was practically melting into the phone was indecent. Charming quirked his mouth and turned aside. He walked along the shelves, reading the titles of the magic books that weren't written in obscure runes. He stopped to study a collection of wooden beetles—so accurately detailed, they looked like they'd once been alive. Then he noticed a glow at the end of the row. _More true love potion?_

Reaching it, he moved a heavy volume to reveal a cut crystal bottle with a filigreed gold stopper sitting on a filigreed gold stand. This potion radiated a purple light twice the intensity of the bottles on the work table. The golden fibers inside twisted and twirled, creating rainbow bubbles that effervesced upward, exploding into sparks when they reached the top. Overall, this example looked more like the vial the Dark One had made him hide in Dragon Maleficent way back when—like the one he said was powering all the magic in Storybrooke now: _my family's true love._

Charming looked over his shoulder at Rumplestiltskin, still engrossed in his call. His eyes shut, the man continued to smile, but he'd wrinkled his forehead again. "The concert… You know it's not easy for me… People are more comfortable if I…I—I know. I need to make an effort… yes… of course, I want to hear you sing… yes… I… I… I… hamburgers."

Charming sucked on his cheek until the last gentle farewell had left the wizard's mouth. Taking his phone back by two fingers, he stuck it in his pocket. Then he pointed at the purple bottle on the shelf. "That batch looks potent."

Rumplestiltskin's lips twisted in one of his I'm-not-telling smiles.

Charming folded his arms. "I'm thinking about my wife and daughter. Considering their dilemma is your fault, it's not fair to hoard magic that could bring them back."

Rumplestiltskin drew a deep breath and released it again. "As lovely as that potion is, I have qualms about its viability."

Cocking his head, Charming asked, "Seriously? The way that potion is burning, it looks like its creators slew each other a couple of dragons, yet you're worried their love isn't true?"

"Well, not dragons. Their sacrifices are of a different sort." Rumplestiltskin's eyes took on the faraway look they'd had the first time he'd told Charming about true love magic—long, long ago, lost in the Infinite Forest. "The woman in question is sacrificing her happiness by trying to get back with the man. He is sacrificing his by trying to stay apart. A rather precarious arrangement, wouldn't you say?"

_Oh. I walked right into that one. _Putting on his best show of nonchalance, Charming slid the large book back in front of the bottle. "So… four collected, five needed. I'll get you more samples as soon as I can. And this time _please_ don't tell me which result is whose." He turned to leave then stopped when he saw—really_ saw_—the busted door. "You have some abracadabra to fix that, don't you?"

Rumplestiltskin lifted his eyebrows. "As easy as mending my cane, dearie."

* * *

Smee stared at the biscuit tin. _One more job and I'm free?_ The unexpected prospect of being his own man again hit him like the first few chugs on a bottle of Cisco. He felt positively bouncy. Grinning into the white light beaming from under the open lid, he said, "You're the boss."

"First, you need to take care of the fairy dust. The dwarves hit a deposit two days ago. The few bags they've filled are sitting unguarded just past the mine entrance. Bring a wheel barrel to take one and stow it where you can easily reach it. Dump the rest."

_Jack a gardener's truck_. "Check."

"Second, show up for work so Moe won't cause a scene if he sees you at the Storybrooke Concert for the Kids tonight."

_The what concert?_ "Check." The damn tin would probably make him spring for his own ticket.

"Third, go to the concert. There will be a hard-to-find object there you'll be asked to acquire." With that, the rusty box snapped shut.

_Detailed instructions later_. Smee rolled his eyes. "Check."

He hoped the tin would provide the full scoop when he returned to his flat this evening to change his _Game of Thorns_ uniform for street clothes. Otherwise, he'd have to lug the nasty thing around all night.

* * *

A minute past eight a.m., Archie settled down on his leather chair and rested his hands on his knees, trying to look as tranquil as possible. Mr. Gold had distanced himself on the couch at the far end of the long coffee table—the same as his two previous sessions. Six months had passed between his need to talk about his son and his need to talk about his magic. This time the break had been less than a week. _The issue must be pressing. _In Archie's experience, that meant his client would take longer to begin.

When Mr. Gold gnawed his lip a full minute without speaking, Archie offered a prompt. "You mentioned a text?"

"The text, yeah. The text. Indeed, the situation has gone far beyond the text." Mr. Gold tapped his cane nervously on the floor. "Belle called. We talked. We have a _date_." He shuddered. "I would have gone to hear her sing at the concert tonight anyway. Now I'll be strolling around the booths afterwards as well. Belle's made so many friends in the last few weeks. Everybody knows her. Everybody likes her. And there she'll be—with _me_."

Belle French, the new librarian. The thought of the cheerful, vivacious, young woman made Archie smile. In a few short weeks, her enthusiasm had turned the town library around with book clubs, poetry readings, and children's story hour. Then he frowned, trying to recall the rumors about her relationship with Mr. Gold. That part was a mystery. He didn't remember anyone saying they'd ever seen her with him.

"When you two were together—living together—you must have gone out at least… at least once."

"In Belle's dreams, maybe." Mr. Gold raised his shoulders. "Oh, we took long walks. And drives. But it's not as though we ever went out for Storybrooke's limited night life. Not even the diner. Too awkward. Ruby is civil to me, but Granny would rather I wither and die. Yet tonight Belle wants us to eat at Granny's hamburger concession."

"Hamburgers. That sounds… non-threatening."

"In the midst of a crowd?" Mr. Gold rocked his head from side to side as if trying to work out an unbearable kink. "Of the many magical objects I relied on in the Enchanted Forest, why is my cloak the one item that wretched curse left behind?"

"Your—your cloak? A magical cloak? What did it do?"

"It protected me."

"Protected you… protected you from what?"

"From being _noticed_."

Archie released his breath in a long "Oh." He fumbled for his glasses, removed them, and polished them on his shirt. Once again, Mr. Gold had him stuck for a reply.

"When the hood was up, I could pass through throngs without people being aware I was there. They'd make way, but they wouldn't realize why. I could see everything as it happened without the _bother_." Mr. Gold grimaced. "No such luck tonight. At least Belle won't be asking me difficult questions. We'll be too distracted by the entire town of Storybrooke coming and going around us—wondering what Beauty is doing, sharing hamburgers with the Beast."

_Beauty and the Beast_. Archie peered curiously at Mr. Gold. "You didn't… didn't pick that fairy tale at random, did you? That's _your_ story. Yours and Belle's."

A faint smile rose to Mr. Gold's lips. "When you've been around three hundred years, you acquire some history."

"Why, that's fantastic. Really fantastic, isn't it?" Archie returned his glasses to his nose to take a good look at his client. "That's one of my favorites. We're talking the version where Beauty is adventurous, bright, well-read. And the Beast is under a curse that makes him not quite… not quite…"

"Human?" Mr. Gold jiggled his head, apparently not offended. "Though the animal I resembled was more crocodile than lion."

"Quite." Bemused, Archie propped his chin on his hand. "And the castle… I was in awe of your lovely castle. What I saw of it, anyway. But I don't recall you having anthropomorphic furniture."

Mr. Gold chuckled softly. These particular recollections seemed to have relaxed him. "I had a dog-faced puppet I charmed to play cards, but otherwise, _no_. The animated version is wrong. My chipped cup was just a cup."

Archie smiled. "If you're the Beast, then you're the hero of the story."

Mr. Gold's mouth twitched. He shook his head. "Belle was the hero—of more consequence than in the earth version. She agreed to come to my castle in exchange for me saving her town from ogres." He fidgeted with his cane. "But she doesn't know the devious step I took to make sure that was the _only_ deal on the table. My part in the story was anything but heroic."

A change in Mr. Gold's voice told Archie they'd come to the crux of his visit. He sat still, waiting for his client to continue.

* * *

That morning in the Fire Swamp Camp, everyone who had avidly watched the duel—with running commentary, cheers, and shouts of guidance—sat very still. When they'd given up on rescuing the mysterious swordsman, everyone had assured each other his disappearance down a pit of lightning sand was really nobody's fault. They'd stuck the longest sticks they could find as far as they could into the treacherous depths. No luck. With nothing more to be done, they'd agreed that the only thing to do was get some sleep.

Huddled around the breakfast campfire, Emma saw yawning mouths and bloodshot eyes. Everyone looked like their night's rest has been as fitful as her own. When the only recourse was speculating on what one should have done, sleep was impossible. _I'm supposed to be the responsible one. Why didn't I stop the fight?_

Nobody's face looked more mournful than Mulan's. The usually unflappable soldier seemed as disconsolate as an abandoned child. After all, the stranger had tripped into the lightning sand when he'd thrown down his sword and pushed her out of the way of a fire spout. In saving her life, he'd lost his own.

"Good morning, everyone. Have I got news for—"

Emma glanced over at Aurora. For the first time in weeks, the princess had slept soundly—right through the noisy duel. Now she was staring around her group of friends with her eyebrows raised. Emma swallowed hard and stood up. She would have to be the one to tell the tale so Aurora wouldn't pester Mulan.

Shaking her head vigorously to clear it, Emma started toward the princess. "We're all okay. It's just that—well, long story."

Aurora didn't respond. She was gazing open-mouthed at something behind Emma.

_What in the world?_ Emma turned.

The stranger from the night before was standing there—sand crusted in his long, wavy, black hair and in his full, black mustache as well. The way his dark eyes glanced this way and that betrayed nervousness, but his jaw jutted out and his stance was straight and tall.

"I am Inigo Domingo Santiago de Todos Montoya the Fourth. Do any of you fine people know the way out of the Fire Swamp?"

At the not-dead swordsman's words, Nibs let out a whoop. Curly and Freebird jumped up and down. Other Lost Boys clapped excitedly. Emma clasped her arms across her stomach, trying to keep her knees from buckling with the weakness of relief. Glancing around at her companions, she started laughing. Surprising how believing you'd negligently killed a stranger—then finding you hadn't—suddenly made him your dearest, long-lost friend.

Then Mulan gave Emma the biggest surprise of all. Her stern, no-nonsense, soldierly companion shrieked—but this time with tears streaming down her cheeks. She launched herself running at her erstwhile opponent and wrapped her arms around him. "You're alive!"

With a bewildered grin, Inigo hugged her back.

* * *

Archie continued to sit very still while Mr. Gold stared unfocused at a spot just past his right ear. Apparently, whatever he was seeing helped his words flow. He hadn't required so much as an encouraging _mm-hmm_ during his entire story.

"That was the first time I saw Belle. What I watched her do for that old woman was so incredibly _kind_, I felt my heart melting." Mr. Gold breathed a heavy sigh. "That's when I knew I had to forget her. Once before, a woman had diverted me from my mission to find my son—the same woman I'd built my castle for. I couldn't risk being tricked again."

Hearing a rasp in his client's voice, Archie leaned out to pour a glass of water from the pitcher he kept filled for that purpose.

Mr. Gold waved his hand for _don't trouble yourself_ and cleared his throat. "I tried my usual distractions: study, travel, experimenting with new forms of magic. I spun gold for days and nights at a time. Finally, I decided my image of her was so noble, it couldn't be real—that seeing her again would dispel my delusions. So I devised a circumstance where I could speak to her—and found she was more splendid than I remembered." He clasped and unclasped the handle of his cane. "Seeing her twice, I wanted to see her always."

Listening, Archie felt a catch in his own throat. He reached for the water pitcher and filled himself a glass.

"I had no illusions about the Dark One courting her. I resolved that she would be my housekeeper. To make _that_ deal I knew what I offered had to be something she and her father couldn't afford to reject."

"Your ability to negotiate with ogres," Archie said.

Mr. Gold nodded. "By then, the Ogre Truces had been in place so long that no living man remembered the horrors of fighting them. I decided to provide a reminder." He passed a hand across his eyes. "So when it came time to hold my yearly parley for the realm where Belle lived, I was _tardy_."

Confused, Archie frowned. "Tardy?" Why would something that would earn a schoolchild a demerit in citizenship so distress his client that he looked like, at any moment, his face would crumple?

"You don't understand." Mr. Gold clenched his cane. "In order to inflate my fee, to _extort_ what I wanted, I concocted a swindle worthy of the Duke of the Frontlands. Willfully, with cold-blooded calculation—knowing full well how the ogres would interpret my absence—I didn't show up to renew the truce. And _because_ I was tardy, the town up the river, sister city to Belle's—the town of Avonlea—fell. A messenger took the news to her father Maurice. Immediately after, I appeared in his castle. Bursting with confidence, I said, 'My price is her.' And because of the peril in which I'd placed her town, she agreed. I engineered the slaughter of six-hundred-and-ninety-two of her neighbors… all because I fancied Belle serving my tea."

Archie felt numb. The psychology education and clinical training the curse had implanted had not prepared him for a confession like this. "That's… that's… that's… a lot to live with." As soon as the ridiculous palliative left his mouth, he wanted to bang his head with his umbrella. Mr. Gold was staring at him. Archie swallowed hard. Suddenly, he realized the best approach was not to be reassuring but to be brutally honest. "That's… that's horrifying. I'm appalled. You crafted an—an awful deal… made a really—really dreadful choice. But you _know_ that. Why? Why did you?"

Spreading his hands in an elaborate _it's a mystery_ shrug, Mr. Gold released a long, breathy laugh. "At the time it seemed like a perfectly reasonable thing to do."

Studying Mr. Gold, Archie recalled their discussion of the Dark One curse. It took a person's tendencies and made them extreme. "You—you haven't told Belle."

"Of course, I haven't told Belle. But she knows I'm holding onto some dark secret. A week before she left, she asked why out of nearly two-hundred-and-fifty years of satisfactory negotiations all over the Enchanted Forest, Avonlea was the exception." Mr. Gold sucked air through his teeth. "Belle made me promise to never lie to her—not even mislead. And I keep my word. So when she asks me a question like that, all I can give her is silence."

Archie heard the soft ping of the alarm he'd set on his phone to tell him when a session's fifty minutes were up. He ignored it and took a long sip of water.

"She asked if I knew what happened to her betrothed, Gaston. I was silent. She asked how I lost my son, my wife. Silent again. She asked what my past is with Regina that she would want to harm my true love." Mr. Gold shook his head. "Finally, she asked why I brought magic to Storybrooke, why I need the power. I _could _have told her that magic is my most cherished skill, that I'm proud of it the way I'm proud of any accomplishment. But for Belle, a partial truth is as good as a lie. The full answer to her question involves three centuries of experiences too humiliating or too disgraceful or too _dark_ to talk about. When I remained silent, she left."

"You could live with that—separation from the one you love—because it's _less_ painful." Archie centered his gaze on his client. "But _Belle_ couldn't. She contacted _you_. She must be expecting something to be different."

Mr. Gold laid his cane across his lap. "Absurd, really. _She_ apologized. She said_ she's_ been judgmental, that _she's_ sorry for making me afraid to speak. She promised I can tell her anything, that it won't make her love me less, it'll only help her understand me more."

Archie tilted his head. _True love_. That might be the best description he'd heard yet.

"Belle didn't know what she was saying." Mr. Gold closed his eyes a moment. "She said we can be together if I _open up and let her in_. But she doesn't understand what a dark, loathsome place that is."

_Oh_. Archie laced his fingers, once more at a loss for what to say.

Unexpectedly, Mr. Gold laughed. "What an ironic deal! The thing she requires in exchange for her love—openness—is the same thing that would destroy it."

"Not everything is a… a deal."

"Isn't it?" He hung his head. "What happens if I don't open up about Avonlea? She's gone again. What happens if I do? Something even worse. She'll recognize that the man she thinks she loves never existed."

"That's what you believe—"

"That's what I've experienced. A long time ago, before I was the Dark One, Bae's mother became disillusioned with me. When that happened, she didn't merely stop loving me. She realized she'd _never_ loved me."

Archie heard the double ping that told him his next client was due. Since that next client was Regina, he needed to reach some semblance of equilibrium with Mr. Gold as quickly as possible.

"You called Belle your _true_ love. True love is forever. This world's psychology texts don't recognize the concept, but we both know it's real. If your story is Beauty and the Beast, then you must have some evidence. Was there a kiss, and was it—?"

"Magical? Indeed. The physical manifestations of the Dark One began to fade—the lizard skin, the talons, the odd voice. But the paranoia remained." Mr. Gold cringed. "I yelled in Belle's face. The very fact that she said it was true love was my proof she was out to trick me. I accused her of conspiring with Regina to strip me of my powers so I could be killed. I had dared to believe she could tolerate me; I was too afraid to believe she could love me. So I threw her out. When she was alone in the forest, unprotected, Regina took her prisoner. We didn't see each other for thirty years."

"That… that was a tragedy. Both of you have survived _countless_ trials and tragedies."

Mr. Gold exhaled a long, ragged sigh.

"And tonight you'll be sharing hamburgers." Archie smiled. "If that's not a fairy tale ending, what is?"

Mr. Gold blinked. He stared at Archie. Then he started to chuckle. "Oh my, doctor. For a moment, I'd forgotten. Hamburgers. Tonight. With Belle." Despite everything he'd said, a smile stretched his lips that reminded Archie of a schoolboy's. "What on earth will we talk about? Condiments?"

"Oh," Archie said, rising to his feet and walking toward his backdoor, away from where Regina would soon enter. "I'm sure you'll think of something more meaningful than that."

* * *

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